Whether You Like It or Not
by kbeautimous
Summary: What the hell are you supposed to meet your soulmate, and he's determined not to stay with you? [Reader-Insert, soulmate AU, does not follow the series, WILL contain explicit sex scenes]
1. His Eyes Are Green

**Okay, so this story was really just more of a flush of the creative pipes than anything. I like it, and I'll finish it, but it's only going to have a few chapters. It will be filled with angst and wordy prose, and it should help me stay motivated and on track with my other stories.**

 **I also have no idea when updates will happen. They probably won't be regular. Sorry, beautiful readers. 3**

 **Tell me what you think! :)**

 **xxxxx**

You're staring at the stupid rain falling outside the stupid window of your stupid office in the stupid building owned by the stupid company that you work for, wishing for a little excitement. A break in the routine.

Fuck, even just some _color_ at this point in your grey, black and white world.

 _What happened to saving the world?_ It's a question that's been on your mind more and more lately.

When you graduated high school, you were determined to save the world. You were going to change things, you were going to help people. You knew it, you were _destined_ for it, it thrummed through your veins and made your heart beat faster.

Then college. College, where you found out that saving the world has more paperwork involved than you thought it did. College, where you were left behind as your friends found their soulmates left and right. And the ones who didn't? Why, they went abroad, and found their soulmates in other countries.

Leaving you stuck here with rather dented and stained dreams, a four-year degree that isn't doing you a damn bit of good now, and a fancy, forty-hour-a-week-with-dental office job.

"Y/N!"

The bark startles you, and you almost fall out of your chair as you spin and stare at your boss. "What? I mean, yes, sir?" you say quickly, wincing at the attitude in your tone.

He doesn't seem to notice. To be fair, Trent doesn't seem to notice a whole lot.

"Did you finish that presentation?"

You nod. "With bells and whistles attached, boss."

He smiles and takes the folder from your hand. "Good job. You're doing great, Y/N."

You blink as he walks back out of your office. For Trent, man who notices little and says even less, that was damn near a pep talk. "Huh. That was weird."

You shake your head a little, hoping to dispel both the depressing thoughts you were having before and the weird thoughts you're having now. "Back to work with you," you say softly to yourself as you turn back to your computer.

 **xxxxx**

You end up being so engrossed in work that Trent has to remind you it's time to go home at the end of the day.

"Sorry, boss! Go on ahead, I'll lock up."

He frowns and looks at you. "Are you sure? I'm happy to wait."

You smile and wave a hand. "Go on, go say hi to Denise for me."

He shrugs and walks out without another word. You smile and power down your computer. The job sucks, but at least you're good at it, and at least your coworkers are all right.

You're still trying to convince yourself that you're not disappointed in how your life turned out as you flip the lights off, lock the front door, and set off on the long walk home.

 _I mean, it's not that bad,_ you reason with yourself. And it's not. You can pay for the roof over your head, you can pay for food in the fridge and the lights to be on. You don't have any of what you would call actual "friends," but there's a bar a block and a half away from your house, and there's always people there if you feel lonely (and you stalwartly ignore the voice in your head insisting that those people don't cure your loneliness, they just make it worse). You've been thinking about getting a cat, even. You want one of those weird ones, with like a missing eye, or maybe a tripod. Someone who's been through some shit. Someone who has _stories_ to tell.

You're reflecting on how truly boring and rather sad your life is when you run into a cold, hard chest.

You gasp and stumble a little, then look up into the man's eyes. He's staring at you like you're a meal and he's starving, and fear starts flirting with the base of your spine.

"E-excuse me," you say softly, your eyes wide when they meet his. "I didn't see you there, I'm sorry."

He smiles coldly, and you whimper a little. "It's all right, dearie." He suddenly leans forward and… _Nuzzles your neck?_ He's inhaling deeply.

You whimper and stay where you are, trembling in fear. _Warrior princess I am not,_ you think weakly as he presses his nose to your neck and inhales deeply.

"You smell good," he mutters, upping the creep factor by one hundred percent.

Suddenly, for no good reason, your fight instinct kicks in. You start kicking and struggling, but his hands are like iron around your arms, and you don't get far. "Get off of me!" you shout, hoping against hope that someone will hear and care enough to come see what's going on.

But you live in a big city. A big, rather heartless city. No one's going to care.

On the other hand, you're clearly not strong enough to fight him off yourself, so screeching like a banshee it is.

 _"Help!"_ you cry out, still trying desperately to twist your body away from his. _"Someone! Help!"_

He's laughing against your skin, and when his cold lips touch your neck, you scream.

And just like that, he drops you. Your legs are a little weak, so you collapse, and when you look up at him, he drops a slow, deliberate wink. "I'll see you later, dearie. Count on it." He taps his nose as he takes a few steps back. "Got your scent now, and you smell _divine."_

He turns and sprints away.

"Wh.. Wh… What the _fuck?"_

Two sets of heavy footsteps come from behind you, and you try to stand, but your legs are shaking, and there are tears in your eyes, and you've never felt more pathetic in your life. _He didn't even do anything to me,_ you scold yourself as the two men who were behind you run past, then stop a few paces in front of you.

"Fuck!" the shorter one yells, although it feels wrong to call him that. He's still taller than you, which you can tell even though they're facing away from you and you're on the ground.

"We'll catch him, let's check on her," the taller one suggests gently.

They turn to look at you, and your brain quickly and neatly shuts off.

 _Oh, heaven, give yourselves a round of applause, because just look at them._

The tall one is good-looking, with a gentle smile, gentle eyes, and hair that goes just past his collar. He's wearing a suit and tie, with a long overcoat. He walks with a sort of catlike grace as he approaches you, hands held out to prove he's not a threat. "Hey, are you okay?"

Before you answer, your eyes flick to the other man, and you feel your heart stop and your breath catch.

It's not because he's actual perfection, because he is. It's not because the bowlegged way he walks makes heat pool in your belly, because it does. It's not because looking at his hands makes you think sinful, blush-worthy thoughts, because they _do._

It's because his eyes, unlike everything around them and everything you've ever seen, aren't grey.

They're a _color._

"Oh," you say softly, lamely, as the most beautiful human being you've ever seen in real life stares at you with wide, _whatever color they are_ eyes.

 **xxxxx**

Dean Winchester has never wanted to meet his soulmate. He's perfectly okay with the black and white world he lives in, because as complicated as it is, it's still simpler than it would be if he had a soulmate.

He used to worry that every woman he'd meet was his soulmate. He'd look into their eyes anxiously, but when they remained grey, he would let himself relax. _Safe for another day,_ he'd think to himself.

But he's stopped worrying all the time. He's even idly wondered if he'll never meet his soulmate. He's only very rarely heard of people not meeting their soulmates until they're nearing forty. And he would be okay with never meeting her.

He saw what it did to his father, to lose his soulmate. It drove him insane with grief and rage. He saw what it did to Sam, to lose _his_ soulmate. It devastated him, _then_ drove him insane with grief and rage.

Dean is a hunter, he knows he's not going to make it a whole lot longer than he already has. He's been pretty lucky, in the sense that he keeps coming back from dying, not that he hasn't died more than his fair share. And he doesn't want to put some poor, innocent woman through that. Not that he thinks he's a catch, but the soulmate thing freaks him out and is a general mystery, and he doesn't want someone hurt just because he is who he is.

He honestly thought he was safe. It's been so long since he even thought about a soulmate, he thought he was all right.

And now he's staring into eyes that are not grey, and he feels his heart stop completely, then start beating so hard he can feel it through his whole body.

"Oh," she says softly, and her voice wraps around him and soothes him somehow, even though he wasn't aware he needed soothing.

"Shit," he says roughly, and he can't help but watch hungrily when he sees her breath quicken and she shudders at the sound.

Sam turns back around and frowns at him. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Dean," she says softly, testing his name out. The sound of it in her mouth knocks him for a loop, and he knows he's just staring at her like an idiot, but he can't help it.

Sam is looking at him, then looks back at her, then looks back at Dean, his own eyes going a little wider. "Dean?"

"Dean," she says again, more firmly, still letting her mouth get used to it. It's still affecting his thinking process.

"Shit," he says again, faintly.

"Can you… I mean… Is she…" Sam's stumbling over his words.

She's the first to get herself together. "Your eyes aren't grey," she says softly, still staring at Dean with wonder. It's making it hard for him to breathe, the way she's looking at him. "They're… Well, obviously, I don't know what they are, but they're definitely not grey."

 **xxxxx**

"Green," Sam says softly to you. "His eyes are green."

You blink, then nod. _Green._ A strong word with a gentle end, a fitting word for the man who's standing in front of you. _Green._ Your soulmate has green eyes.

He looks back at Dean. "Y/E/C, Dean, her eyes are Y/E/C." Dean just nods mechanically, his lovely lips shaping the word silently as he mouths the word to himself.

Blatantly, you realize that you're still on your ass on the sidewalk. _Smooth,_ you think to yourself. You slowly push yourself up so you can stand. The adrenaline drains out of you suddenly, leaving you trembly and weak. _Get it together, Y/N,_ you think as you start to get up.

You see Sam's hand reach for your arm to steady you, but the last man who touched your arm accosted you, and suddenly you want nothing more than to beg him not to help.

Before the words can come out, though, a strong arm is around your waist. You inhale sharply, then look into Dean's green (and, really, has a word ever been so perfect?) eyes. The shock and trepidation you're feeling about everything the last fifteen minutes has brought is reflected in those eyes. Now a little overwhelmed, you feel your own eyes start to water. _Honestly, this is too much for a girl to handle in one night. Half-mugged and meeting my soulmate? Jesus, take the wheel._

Again, before you can speak, his big hand is on the back of your head, and he's gently guiding your face to press into his neck. Somehow, that seems perfectly natural, so you go willingly. You barely notice yourself stepping to stand in front of him, or that your arms wrap around his middle, beneath the long overcoat and the suit jacket he's wearing. _Oh, heaven help me, he's built like a Greek god._ You take in a deep inhale, and his musk fills your head and your lungs and chills you right out.

His fingers are threading through your hair, which practically has you purring like a kitten, when he speaks.

"We're gonna need to get a room, Sammy."

"You don't want to-"

"It's too dark by now. Safer in the morning."

"You can stay with me," you say softly into his warm neck, "I have plenty of room."

His hand stills in your hair, but you don't pull away. He's warm, firm, and he smells good. Wild horses couldn't get you to move.

"I don't know-"

"Dean," Sam interrupts, his soft voice chiding, "It will probably be safer for…" There's a pause. "God, we don't even know your name yet."

You blush, and that "yet" makes you all warm inside. "Yet" confirms that there will be more. "Y/N, my name is Y/N," you say, keeping your face pressed against the neck of a man whose clothes you crawled beneath before you even introduced yourself.

"Y/N," he says softly. The sound of your name in his deep, whiskey voice sends awareness up and down your spine.

"Y/N," Sam says. You can hear the smile in his voice. "It will probably be safer for Y/N if we're staying with her."

You frown and finally lift your head. You look up at Dean, who's honestly a little overwhelming up close. "Safer?" you ask. "Safer from what? That guy?"

Dean looks down at you for a long time, and you get the distinct feeling that you're missing something.

 **xxxxx**

Dean follows her into the big house she calls home. He's sick to his stomach with dread and heartbreak. He hates this.

 _She's so young,_ he thinks mournfully. She's at least ten years his junior, and he wouldn't be surprised if it's more than that. _I'm going to ruin her life._

He's pulled out his thoughts by Sam's voice. "This is a nice place, Y/N."

She's fishing for her keys from her bag (which should annoy him, but God help him he thinks it's kind of cute), but she spares a moment to flash a smile at Sam. "Thank you. It belonged to my parents."

"Are they…" Dean asks before he can stop himself. _Dammit._ He hopes it's not a painful subject. When she was just a little shaky before, he got a little shaky seeing her like that. If she cries, it might actually kill him.

Her eyes flick to his, and the warmth there relaxes something in him. She nods. "Yeah, they died in a car accident when I was sixteen. Left me the house and enough money to pay for college." She finds the keys, gives him a triumphant smile, and unlocks the door. "I lived with my grandfather, who was an abusive bastard, for about two weeks before I ran away and sought emancipation. I got it, stroke of luck more than anything, and I've been on my own ever since."

She leads them into the house, and Dean soaks in her home eagerly, desperate for clues to who she is.

She's making a face. "Oh, this is godawful."

It's… _Colorful._ In a way he couldn't have appreciated half an hour ago. The nicest word he can think of is "eclectic."

Sam is kinder than he is. "It's not that bad. You couldn't see it."

She gives him an incredulous look over her shoulder as she ushers them in and shuts the door. "You don't have to be nice, Sam. It's horrific."

Dean smiles and watches her disassemble herself. She pulls her coat off, and the way the deep blue of her sweater sets off the color of her hair makes his mouth go dry.

She toes her shoes off and pads into the kitchen. "Have you guys eaten yet?"

"Please tell me you cook," Dean says vehemently, before he can stop himself. _God dammit,_ he thinks angrily, _stop acting like you're sticking around._

But her soft laughter is worth it. "Oh, you're a foodie, that's good to know. Yes, I can definitely cook. I don't have a lot right now, so it's going to be leftover veggie lasagna and garlic bread. Sound okay?"

Dean nods, even though she can't see him. "Yeah, sweetheart," he says softly.

His heart is in his throat. He can barely think around the emotion rising in his chest. He's practiced at tamping them down, but it's harder this time. She's his _soulmate._ And here she is, with an established life, with a job and a house and probably friends and family. It makes him want to stay with her. Just give up all of this shit, give up on everything and just stay here with her.

"So, you guys are, what, cops?" Her voice shakes him from his dark thoughts.

"Yes," he says, at the same time that Sam says, "No." He glares at his brother, who glares right back.

Suddenly angry, he grabs Sam's arm and drags him outside. He swings the door shut and spins to his brother. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Sam flings his arms out to the side. "What are _you_ doing? What, you're just going to lie to her?"

"We can't stay here, Sam!"

Sam blinks, then pales. "What?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Sam, God dammit. We can't stay here, she can't come with us. We're _hunters,_ Sam. We can't… She can't… Sam, she's probably twenty-goddamn-five. What am I going to do? Drag her around the country? Teach her how to pack a salt round? Are you shitting me?" He flung his arm toward the house. "Sam, this isn't going to work. She won't be safe."

"Dean, we can keep her safe! That's what we do!"

Dean shakes his head, resolute. "No. We can't do that to her. She doesn't deserve that."

Sam runs his hand through his hair in frustration. "Dean, what about her? She deserves to, what, meet her soulmate and then have you bail?"

Dean's already turned back to the door, his mind is made up. "She deserves more than what I could give her, Sam. That's the end of the discussion."

When he sees the door, he realizes it's wide open, and his blood freezes. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

He turns back to Sam, whose eyes are also wide. He turns back to the door and walks in slowly. She's not in the front room, so he goes to the kitchen.

"So, in fun side news," she says softly, "I'm not deaf, and if the door doesn't click, it won't stay closed."

Dean winces at the raw emotion in her voice. Her back is turned him, she's making the garlic bread. Her shoulders are tense, and he wants nothing more than to comfort her, to wrap his arms around her and kiss the tenseness from her shoulders and neck until she's not mad at him anymore.

But if he does that, he'll stay. So he just stands there in the kitchen, awkwardly, heaping on more self hate than he already has.

 **xxxxx**

"Dinner's ready," you say softly, wrestling with the emotions that make you want to collapse and cry for days. _You just met him,_ you scold yourself. _Don't be this upset._

But he's not just some guy. He's your soulmate. He's the reason you can see that the veggie lasagna that you'd always suspected looked delicious really _does,_ it's got beautiful deep greens (the color of his amazing eyes, those eyes that _aren't sticking around),_ and several other colors you don't have names for yet. _They make books for that, it'll be all right._

He's your soulmate, and even _he_ doesn't want to stay with you.

You steel yourself, refusing to let it get the better of you, and you turn and smile at him. You ignore the pain and guilt written across his lovely face and keep your smile bright. "Let's eat, gentlemen."

 **xxxxx**

Dinner is awkward and silent until you speak. You can't stand awkward silence, you can't deal with the way they're shooting angry looks at each other. Dean's shooting guilty, aching looks at you, and Sam's shooting sad, sympathetic looks at you. It's driving you _crazy._

"So, what's a hunter?" you ask calmly. "I assume you don't mean that you shoot at Bambi."

Sam chuckles, then flicks a look at Dean, as if he's asking _permission._ Which irritates the fuck out of you. "Look, gentlemen," you say sharply, "Do you need me to leave the room? So you can discuss what's 'safe' to tell me? Before I ask more uncomfortable fucking questions?"

Dean winces, and so does Sam. "Y/N-" Sam starts.

You hold a hand up. "Nope, no dice. I want to hear it from Dean." You stare into his green, pained eyes defiantly. "I think I deserve at least that much from you, Dean, before you leave." When he's silent, you wave an impatient hand. "Come on, what's a hunter?"

Dean looks at you for another moment, then heaves a sigh. "We… Look, Y/N, this isn't something that you can just learn about in a night, it-it-it… It'll ruin your life." There's just the slightest hesitation, then, _"I'll_ ruin your life."

Suddenly, the food in front of you has no appeal whatsoever. You just stare at him. "Isn't that for me to decide?"

He stands, shoves his chair back, and walks out the front door. When it slams behind him, you flinch, fighting the tears in your eyes. You look at Sam, and the sadness in his eyes almost bowls you over. Instead of giving into that, you ask, "What color are your eyes, Sam?"

He smiles. "Uh, I guess brown? Jess called them hazel."

The past tense does not escape you, but you leave it. You just don't have it in you to deal with more sadness and upset than your own right now. You take a deep, deep breath. "All right, what's a hunter?"

 **xxxxx**

Forty minutes later, you're sitting in shock when Dean comes back. You're barely even mad at him anymore, because, obviously…

"Holy shit," you say softly. "You're batshit crazy." You groan and lay your head down on the table, pushing your plate of food away.

"Y/N," Sam says gently. "I know this is a lot to take in-"

You turn to lay your cheek on the table and look across at Dean, who has sat back down and is watching you warily. "I mean, of course you're a lunatic. You walk around looking like that, you've got to have one _hell_ of a flaw hidden somewhere."

Dean smiles a little, and even if you are mad at him, it lightens your heart. "I know it's a lot, sweetheart."

You close your eyes. "It's not a lot, guys. It's impossible."

"What about the guy who attacked you?" Dean asks. "Wasn't there something a little… _Off_ about him?"

When you think about it for a second, you raise your head and meet his heart-stopping eyes. "He was cold," you say softly. "And… And I think he _sniffed_ me."

Dean nods. "He's a vampire. It's why we wanted to stay here. Did, uh, did Sammy explain about vampires?"

You nod.

"Once they have your scent, they have it forever. It's why you'll be safer with us here. Hopefully, we can go after him tomorrow morning, so you'll be safe."

 _Be safe because he's not going to be here later to protect you._ But you're suddenly too tired to argue about it, and you don't want to be mad. You're exhausted, from the adrenaline and the soulmate revelation and the whole fucking night. God, you're just so tired.

So you just say, "Okay, Dean," and stand to clear the table. "There's two guest bedrooms upstairs. The sheets are probably kind of stale, and if you really feel the urge, you can change them. But I think I'm going to go the fuck to bed."

The concern in their eyes is making your heart ache, so you ignore it to go into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

While you're washing, you see him come stand next to you. "Towel?"

You point. "Second drawer."

He pulls out a dish towel and starts drying as you hand plates to him. It's too much, it's too domestic, it's too much like everything you've ever wanted from a soulmate. But the dishes need to be washed, there's nothing to be done about the situation, and you're done fighting this. So you just cry silently, trying not to shake too much, hoping he won't mention it.

As you hand him the last plate, you wipe your eyes and sniffle. You leave your hands covering your face, struggling to keep yourself together. You turn to walk away, to just go to bed, but you run into his warm, firm chest, and you totally break. His strong arms wrap around you, he tucks your face into his neck again, and he holds you. You put your arms around his middle again and whimper, shaking and shuddering in his embrace.

"Shh, I'm sorry, sweetheart, shh, it's going to be okay," he murmurs to you.

"No, it won't," you whisper. "You're some kind of goddamn superhero, and you're my soulmate, and you're going to leave, and I'm going to be fucking stuck here by myself with colors I don't have names for and alone for the rest of my life."

His chest hitches a little, but God dammit, you're the one who needs to be comforted, so you ignore it. _Fuck him._

He's rocking you gently back and forth, holding you tight to him. "Shh, I know, sweetheart, fuck, I'm so sorry, I wish this hadn't happened. I wish you didn't have to be… This, with me. Fuck, I'm so, so sorry, Y/N." His rough voice, shaking with emotion, soothes you.

You stand there for a long time, breathing him in, holding him, trying to give him comfort even as you receive it. Finally, you lift your head and sniffle again. You meet his green eyes, wet with tears, and you give him a tremulous smile. "It's okay, Dean. I'm just tired. I think I'm gonna go to bed, and in the morning, we'll deal with everything else."

He raises a hand to cup your face, and you lean into his touch. "All right, sweetheart."

 **xxxxx**

Dean lays in one of her guest bedrooms on his back, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his stomach.

He can't fucking sleep.

The longest day of his damn life in recent memory, and he can't fucking sleep.

 _Fuck this._

He sweeps the blankets off and stands to find his sweats. Maybe he'll go for a drive, maybe just walk around the damn house until he feels better. He's telling himself that he's restless because there's the threat of a vampire. He knows he's lying to himself, but he lets it happen.

He quietly slips out of the room and starts down the hall, wincing when the old floorboards creak.

He stops when he hears her in the kitchen, humming softly. He slowly descends the stairs and comes upon her mixing something in a bowl. She's wearing a tank top and shorts, her hair pulled up in a wispy, messy knot.

She's lovely.

And he _can't have her._

He's overwhelmed by her, and he allows himself a rare moment of weakness. He crosses the room and stands behind her. Without hesitation or nervousness, because this is what feels natural, what feels good, he wraps his arms around her and tucks her close to him, resting his chin on her head. She doesn't tense or move away, she must have known he was there. She just leans back into him, and starts singing softly.

" _Hey, Jude, don't make it bad,_

 _Take a sad song and make it better,_

 _Remember to let her into your heart,_

 _Then you can start to make it better."_

Unable to help himself, and allowing himself another small weakness, he sings gently with her, rocking her side to side as she whisks whatever it is she's whisking. It doesn't really matter now, anyway.

" _Hey Jude, don't be afraid,_

 _You were made to go out and get her,_

 _The minute you let her under your skin,_

 _Then you begin to make it better."_

Her shoulders begin to shake, and he slowly runs his hands down her arms to cover hers, which are trembling. He gently helps her put down the bowl and the whisk, then turns her in his arms and tucks her into him again. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I know," she whispers, pressing her face into his neck like it was made to go there. Which, of course, it was. "I know, I just wish you'd… I wish…"

She seems at a loss for words, so he just hugs her tighter and holds her tight.

A long time later, when her soft sobs have gone down to whimpers, he disentangles himself enough to scoop her into his arms. She gasps, but burrows close as he carries her into the living room and sits on the couch with her. He gently arranges them so they're lying down, her chest pressed to his front, her legs tangled with his. She wraps an arm around him and cuddles close.

She's asleep in minutes.

He's asleep right after.

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**

 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**

 **Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.**

 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**

 ****Also, apparently I'm incapable of making a character who isn't a feminist. Look at me go.**


	2. You're a Fucking Idiot, Dean

You wake up to his warmth leaving you, and you groan in protest. Immediately, his big hand is brushing your hair from your face, and you lean into his calloused skin.

"Shh, sweetheart," he murmurs, "It's okay. Stay here for me."

That wakes you up a little, and you crack one eye open to meet his gaze. Your heart is breaking in your chest, but you allow none of your pain to show on your face. "Will you come back?" you whisper, fearing the answer.

He pauses, and the regret and pain in _his_ face has you reaching up to run your fingers along his cheekbone, down to his jaw. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll come back."

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, and you've never felt so loved, even if he is bound and determined to leave. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

 **xxxxx**

Dean can't remember the last time a hunt went quite that well.

He and Sam moved in perfect tandem, approaching the little shack that the vampire nest was holed up in silently, then moving into it just as soundlessly. His machete was fast, moving through necks and spinal cords like butter. The deep part of him, the part of him that he'll never acknowledge, loved it, rejoiced in the blood spattering across his face and the creature that threatened his woman dying bloody and terrified.

He wipes the blood off his face with the tail of his flannel as he and Sam make their way back to the Impala. He knows what's coming, but he hopes against hope that his little brother will keep his fucking mouth shut.

No such luck. "Dean, we need to talk about Y/N."

Dean doesn't look at him. "We really don't."

Sam sighs, and Dean rolls his eyes. "Dean, I don't think just leaving her here is a good idea."

Dean opens the trunk and places his machete in it's place. He'll clean it later. "Yeah, well then what the hell am I supposed to do, Sam? You saw her, she's... " He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes against the familiar feeling of guilt and shame hammering at him. "She's so _young,_ I can't take her with us, Sam."

"Dean, for fuck's sake, it's like you're _determined_ to feel bad about her." Surprised, Dean turns to look at his brother, who looks exasperated. "I mean, she's an adult, dude. And she's your _soulmate._ You can let her make her own decisions."

Dean shakes his head. "Sam, she won't… She doesn't understand the danger it would put her in to be with me." He shakes his head again, his decision still firm. "No. No, she's not coming with us."

Sam gets in the car next to him, and it's silent for a while. Dean relishes it until Sam speaks again.

"You're a fucking idiot, Dean."

 **xxxxx**

When they pull back into the driveway, something that was high and tight in your stomach relaxes. It's very, very late morning, and you've been busy since they've been gone.

You weren't able to go back to sleep after he left (which makes you worry vaguely about your ability to sleep without him, but you push that fear to the back of your mind, because it's not like there's anything you can do about it). So, instead, you got up and got busy.

You washed all of the clothes of theirs you could find, ignoring the little twinge of guilt at going through their bags. You didn't read either of the journals you found, one Sam's and one Dean's, you honestly just pulled their clothes out to wash them. There's a _lot_ of blood, so you get it out the best you can. Some of their shirts still have faint stains, but you were determined, so mostly they're presentable.

You also cooked a massive meal, because you know they didn't eat before they left. Which bothers you, they really should eat breakfast, and having an empty stomach surely makes hunting more dangerous? You plan on having a serious talk with him about it after breakfast. Even if he's not sticking around, he's still your soulmate, and you expect him to take care of himself.

You take a deep, relieved breath, unlock the door, and go back to folding clothes on the kitchen table. You don't turn around when they come in, but you're smiling. "Morning, gentlemen."

"Hey, Y/N," Sam says softly. You can _hear_ the frown in his voice. "Are those-"

"Yeah, I did your laundry while you were out." You finally turn and smile at Sam, still not quite ready to look at Dean. "I mean, you guys went to kill a vampire for me, so it's kind of the least I could do."

Sam smiles a little, and you know he knows you're avoiding his brother. "Well, uh, thank you. You didn't have to do that."

You shrug. "No problem." You turn back to fold another of Dean's t-shirts. It's dumb, but you did Sam's first because you _hate_ folding laundry, and saved Dean's for last as a kind of reward. Which is something that you will absolutely never _ever_ tell _anyone_ about. _Ever._

"Although I do hope that most of this blood isn't yours," you say cheerfully. "Because, if it is, you should both be real dead."

His deep, rough chuckle makes you aware that Dean is right behind you. You shudder. "It's not all from one hunt," he says softly, his rumbling voice sending shivers up and down your whole body. "And no, not all of it is ours."

"Good," you say in an almost whisper, unable to be much louder when he's so close to you. "There's, um, there's food in the oven for you guys. It's just biscuits and gravy, but it's good."

You can feel him fighting the urge to touch you, because you're fighting the urge to turn around and wrap yourself in him. So you solve the problem for him by folding the last t-shirt, placing it gently on the stack of clothes, and picking them up. You don't turn to look at him, you just walk away to put them on the bed in the room he's staying in.

You try to think of something to say, but there's nothing. It's all already been said, at least the important part. The part where he's your soulmate, the man that the powers that be have designated for you and you alone, and he's leaving soon. Maybe even today.

That makes your heart ache, but you don't make a sound as you ascend the stairs to put his clothes away. He'll be yours for at least until after they eat, so you'll have to figure out a way to be all right with that.

 **xxxxx**

You're doing their breakfast dishes, over their protests, when Dean comes into the kitchen with a sort of… _Nervous_ look on his face.

You smile at him, then take a moment to let your eyes trail down his body. His broad shoulders, his muscled chest and abdomen, his slim hips, his bowed legs. You trail them back up, taking it all in again in reverse, then meet his eyes. Maybe he's going to leave, and maybe you'll have to be okay with it, but you're certainly not going to make it _easy._ So you let the heat that pools in your belly at the sight of him in just a t-shirt and jeans show in your eyes, and you gently bite your bottom lip.

His green eyes zero in on that, and his breath stutters a little, sending satisfaction spiralling through you. _Take that._

"Did you need something, Dean?" you ask softly, letting your voice husk.

He clears his throat a little, but doesn't let his gaze wander from your mouth. "I, uh, yeah, I…"

When he trails off, you laugh out loud. His eyes snap back up to your face, and he smiles ruefully, but there's a weird look on his face. A look that makes your heart beat faster, a look that you want to see on his face all the time.

Before you can define it any more than that, he speaks again. "Look, I have to leave tonight, _we_ have to… Uh, leave tonight, but I don't want to leave you unprotected."

The heat goes out of you all at once, just like that. You frown. "There's an easy solution to that, you know."

He shakes his head. "Y/N, I-"

You hold a hand up. "Can it, I don't want to hear more excuses. What did you have in mind?"

 **xxxxx**

Sam and Dean spend the rest of the day either fixing up little stuff around your house, or monster proofing it.

It's an old house, and a _big_ house, and all of the things that tend to be wrong or fall apart in big, old houses are wrong and have fallen apart in yours. Dean reaffixes the gutters to the roof, oils hinges on doors throughout the house, and mows the lawn. Sam fixes broken shutters, changes all of the locks in the house (all of the doorknobs are coated with silver, which you are sure makes them the most valuable thing in the house), and fixes the broken railing on the stairs.

They also paint devil's traps on the underside of all of your rugs _and_ on your ceiling, repaint each windowsill and threshold with salt-mixed paint, and put silver and iron fixtures around the place. Dean leaves a jug of holy water under the sink and gives you a brief lesson on the handgun he's leaving you. You're absolutely, one hundred percent certain you'll never use it, but you let him show you anyway, because it seems to make him feel better.

Sam spends the day shooting dark, irritated looks at Dean, and spends the rest of his time shooting looks to you that range from sympathetic to amused. You decide to bombard him while he's fixing the railing on the stairs.

"So, this is a guilt thing, right?" you ask, sitting on the step beneath him.

He chuckles. "Yeah, I think so. He doesn't want you to be vulnerable, but he's got a stick up his ass about staying, or about you coming with us."

You sigh and lean your head back against the wall. "Is there anything I can do to change his mind?"

He looks back at you, the places a warm hand on your shin and squeezes comfortingly. "I don't know," he says gently. "He can be pretty stubborn about stuff like this, and he's trying to keep you safe, so it's going to be easier for him to justify it to himself."

You sigh again. "And the age gap isn't helping."

He chuckles and turns back to his work. "No, the age gap isn't helping."

"It's not like I've been on my own since I was sixteen. I've been taking care of myself for almost a decade, that doesn't qualify me as an adult?"

He gives you another sympathetic squeeze. "It does, Dean's just using any excuse he can."

 **xxxxx**

Dean listens to them talk about him, trying to tamp down the anger. He can just barely see her leg, and he sees Sam's hand land on her shin. _He's just trying to comfort her, he's just trying to comfort her,_ he repeats to himself over and over, fighting with the jealousy rising in him.

He has no right to be jealous of anything. He knows that. She can do whatever she wants. Just because she can see color now, because of him, doesn't mean anything. Especially since he's not staying. He knows that. He _knows_ he has no right to be jealous of anything.

But goddamned if he isn't.

The way she looked at him in the kitchen, her pretty eyes devouring him, damn near killed him. Even now, just thinking about it, has his blood rushing south. He shakes his head and silently slips back outside to finish the work on the gutters, and to distract himself from the thought of her moving and crying out beneath him, sweaty and curvaceous and soft and lovely.

 _Not helping._

 **xxxxx**

It's later in the afternoon, after you've fed everyone again. You're sitting at the kitchen table, working on another presentation for your job. You're making a note on one of the pages when Dean comes in.

"Where's your car, Y/N?"

You blink, your thoughts scattering. "Huh?"

He smiles, and you melt a little in the face of it. "Your car, sweetheart, where is it?"

You rub a hand down your face. "Oh, uh, I don't have one. One less thing for you to fix." You smile.

He's frowning now, though. "What do you mean you don't have one?"

"I walk everywhere, Dean. I was walking home from work last night when we met."

He stares at you for a second. "Y/N, where is it that you work?" When you name the cross streets, anger starts snapping in his green eyes. "God dammit, woman, that's at least an hour walk!"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, it is not. Dean, it's like three miles, I'm _fine."_

"Half a mile of it has to be through those woods!"

You nod. "Yes, and I've been walking it for _years._ The only time I've ever had trouble was last night."

"God dammit, Y/N!"

You stand, pushing your chair back behind you. "You don't have any right to yell at me, Dean Winchester," you snap, gathering your papers into a stack. Your focus on work is _long_ gone. "Maybe you would if you were sticking around, but as of right now, you're just some random dude who showed up, fixed my house, and is trying to boss me around now. So feel free to go right on ahead and go fuck yourself."

He winces at your words, and you soften. "Look, I'm sorry," you say gently. "I didn't mean that. It's just that I've been taking care of myself just fine for a long time, Dean." You come around and stand in front of him, unable to fight the urge to gently run your fingers down his stubbly jaw. "I'm all right, Dean. Stop feeling guilty about me."

"I can't, sweetheart," he says roughly.

You sigh. "Dean, is this because of our age? Because it's not an issue for me, so I can't imagine why it's a problem for you."

He groans and tilts his head back, and while the sound kicks something awake in your solar plexus, you ignore that and continue stroking his jaw softly. You shouldn't, you know it's just playing with fire, but if he's not going to stop you, you're certainly not strong enough to stop yourself.

"You've just got… I don't want to be the thing that ruins your life."

You roll your eyes. "You keep saying that. What exactly is it that you see here that could be so easily ruined?" When he tilts his head back up to look at you, you smile up at him. "Dean, I work at a job I don't particularly like, in a house by myself that I own outright. I don't have friends, I don't have family, I don't even have so much as a _cat._ So what is that you're seeing that you don't want to ruin? Because from where I'm standing, there's not much here, anyway."

He shakes his head. "You've got a _life_ here. You don't understand, if I stayed here, or if you came with us, it wouldn't be like that. You can't… There's _nothing,_ I have _nothing_ to offer you, sweetheart." His big hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek, and you realize that you're crying again. _Jesus Christ, I've cried more in the last day than I did in the last year._ "I'll ruin you, Y/N," he whispers roughly, and you also realize that you've stepped closer to him, your chest pressed to his. "I just take, I have nothing to give."

You shake your head, never breaking eye contact. "I don't believe that," you whisper back, "I don't think that's true. You have _you_ to give, and what if that's all I want?"

Real fear enters his eyes, and it breaks your heart because you know what he's about to say.

"I can't do that, sweetheart."

 **xxxxx**

After the conversation in the kitchen, which Dean bailed out of rather quickly, the wind is knocked out of your sails. You try to focus on work, but you can't. You just keep crying like an idiot, and after half an hour of sniffling and watching the men walk by you like they don't see it, you give up.

You go into the linen closet and pull out a huge comforter, then you curl up on the couch wrapped in it. You find the remote and push play, since the move is already in the player. _Mrs. Doubtfire_ starts, and you huddle into your blanket, perfectly content to ignore the Winchesters until they go away.

" _Mrs. Doubtfire?"_ Dean's deep voice asks from the hallway.

You don't look at him, but you do raise a finger and point at him threateningly. "Not a word, you. This is one of the best movies ever made. It's perfect. Sit down and watch it with me or shut up and go away."

The couch dips with his weight, and you refuse to look at him still. You just watch, crying silently about both the movie and your situation.

Sam comes in somewhere near the middle of the movie, sitting on the big armchair next to the couch. You can't decide whether you're okay with him being over there, leaving you and Dean on the couch, or you wish he was on the couch, too, so you would all be next to one another, and it wouldn't be awkward as hell.

As the movie goes on, the three of you laugh together a lot, and it feels nice. You don't realize you've relaxed until the end of the movie.

You start to cry again, your shoulders shaking. You know you're whimpering, but you can't help it as the message about families and love stretching over distance and time washes over you. You turn your head, and with a little bit of shock realize that you're sitting beneath Dean's arm, leaning into him, and now your face is pressed into his chest. It felt so natural you didn't even know that either of you had moved.

You stay there, crying in his arms, for a long time after the movie has stopped. Sam quietly leaves the room, and Dean hauls you into his lap, until your head is beneath his chin and his hand is stroking your hair comfortingly.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I know, Dean."

And there, crying in his arms, you come to a decision.

 **xxxxx**

Dean holds her until she's snoring gently, and considers moving, or taking her up to her bedroom. Instead, he stays there, stroking her hair, savoring the way her weight sinks into him, and her soft snores start to lull him to sleep.

He _hates_ this. Her beautiful eyes, her enrapturing face, looking up at him, arguing to go with him. He's known her for almost twenty-four hours now, but sitting here, watching the late afternoon night sun sweep across the room, this is the most he's felt at all for a long time.

To be a hunter, or more accurately, to be a _Winchester,_ feelings can't be part of the equation. He can't go around being in touch with his emotions. People are too easily lost, too easy taken, to love anyone other than Sam.

But he can feel himself slipping into loving her. The way she looked while she was working, tapping her pen against her lips when she thought, making quick little notes then scratching them out. She was lovely then, and she's lovely now. Wrapped in her blanket, all cried out, sleeping away her exhaustion against his chest. He never wants to move.

He _has_ to. His life isn't good enough for her, she deserves so much better. Maybe she'll find someone else. Maybe she'll go be happy with someone who can give her a good life, who can be there for her like he can't.

The thought breaks his heart, but he tries to brace himself against the pain. _This is the best way,_ he tells himself firmly.

 **xxxxx**

You wake up wrapped in his arms, in his warmth. Giving in, you lean up to press your face into his neck, then place a hesitant, gentle kiss on the skin there. You go no further, you can't trust yourself to go any further, but you stay there. His breath hitches a little, and you relish the reaction he has to you for a moment.

"Can I, uh, take you to dinner?" he asks hesitantly, his low voice resonating in your soul.

"What about Sam?" you ask softly.

"Sam will be fine."

 **xxxxx**

You're at a local diner that you've always loved. Dean holds the door for you, pulls out your chair, and pays the bill when it comes. It's kind of nice. He asks you questions about your life, and you answer patiently, but not without trading information.

You learn about his militant upbringing, which breaks your heart.

You tell him about your normal upbringing, which he absorbs raptly.

He tells you stories about hunts he and Sam have been on, making you laugh so hard tears run down your face.

You tell him about your boring job, which you excel at, and he seems _way_ too interested in that to be genuine.

But he _is._ He wants to know everything about you, and you struggle to not let that make you bitter, because it doesn't matter how interested he is, he's still leaving you in a couple of hours.

As dinner winds down, the conversation turns toward the situation you find yourselves in.

You give a bitter little laugh and drain your wine glass. "It figures this would happen to me," you say mildly.

He frowns. "What?"

You smile. "Oh, that I would find you, and you're not sticking around. It just… Puts the cherry on top of the crap pile that is my life now."

He frowns harder. "Y/N, it's not because of _you._ I just… This is the best way to keep you safe."

You take a deep breath, because this is going to be the hard part of this conversation. But you've reached your decision, and you're not budging.

"Dean, you don't have to lie to me," you say softly.

His eyes snap up to yours, and you smile wanly. "Dean, I know what this is. It's good-bye. You're leaving." He winces, but you forge ahead. "You're leaving, because you think you're making a selfless choice. You think that leaving me here means that you're doing the right thing, you think it means you're keeping me safe." You smile humorlessly. "You think because it's the hard choice, it's the right choice. But it's not."

He looks pained, and he opens his mouth to reply, but you don't give him time. "It's bullshit, and you know it. You're not leaving me here because it's safer for me, you're leaving me here because you're too scared to lose me, to be hurt." You take a deep breath, because your voice is shaking and you want it to stop. "I'm telling you this because, while you're a hero, and you may save people, I don't want you to walk away thinking that you're the hero in this situation." The tears fall down your face and your voice finally cracks. "Because you're not, you can't be, not when you're leaving me here _without_ you, but _with_ a houseful of symbols I don't understand to keep me safe from danger you won't explain to me."

You take another deep breath, wipe your face angrily, and look into his eyes again. "But I'm also telling you this because I don't care."

He blinks. "What?" he asks, his voice rough and deep.

You smile sadly. "I don't care. I just want you to come back to me."

He frowns, not understanding, so you continue. "When you're between cases, or when you have a case close by, come back to me. I'll wash your clothes, and you can eat food that doesn't come from a diner, and take a hot shower, and sleep in a real bed. You and Sam both, come back to me, whenever you can. That's all I'm asking." When he looks like he's going to say no, you let your pride go and resort to begging. "Please, Dean, all I need is this. You can lie if you need to, but please, please, _please_ say yes."

A long silence passes, the longest of your life. He finally nods briefly. "All right, sweetheart."

It doesn't matter to you that you don't know if he's lying.

 **xxxxx**

You hug Sam tight, letting his big arms around you comfort you. "Be safe, Sam," you whisper.

He squeezes you back. "You, too, Y/N. I'll work on him, okay?"

You smile and step back. "It's all right, Sam, you don't have to."

He cups your face for a second, and you realize how _big_ this dude is. "I will, though."

He goes to the car, and you turn to Dean, standing awkwardly on your front porch, his duffel in his hand. He smiles a little sadly. "Take care of yourself, Y/N."

The words are not the ones you want to hear. They're weird and cold and formal, not something you'd say to your _soulmate_ when you're _leaving her forever._

And suddenly, the idea that he just gets to leave is _bullshit._

 _Well, fuck that then._

You step forward, grab the front of his unbuttoned flannel and fist it in your hands, and yank him forward, crashing your mouth to his.

Everything inside you explodes and melts at the same time. He makes a surprised sound. Then, before you realize what's happening, he's dropped the bag, his big hands are on your hips, and he's turned to shove you against the wall of the house and pin you there with his weight. You gasp, and his tongue sweeps into your mouth, invading every sense you have with him. He tastes like the good whiskey you keep in the cabinet, he smells musky and a little spicy, he's hard beneath your hands, and his hips press against you. You roll your hips and he shudders, sending that good, feminine satisfaction through you.

His lips moving on yours are making thoughts completely impossible. _Goddamn, the man can kiss._ It's both gentle and sweet and affectionate, and hard and demanding and possessive, all at the same time. It's making your head swim, so you give up and just kiss him shamelessly.

He pulls away and presses his forehead against yours, and you're both catching your breath, your air mingling with his when he doesn't pull away. His eyes are closed, and his face is pinched and worried, and you can't resist the urge to run your fingers along his cheekbones, down his jaw, relaxing those tense lines with your soft touch.

"Be safe, Dean," you say softly, "And remember what you told me."

He looks at you for a moment, then presses his lips to your forehead. "All right, sweetheart," he says roughly.

He turns away, grabs his duffel, and goes down to the car. You wave at Sam, who gives you a tight smile as they get into the lovely Impala. Then they drive away, right out of your life.

You can't help the sob that tears through your chest.

"God damn you, Dean Winchester."

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**

 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**

 **Reviews and comments give me life and keep me going.**

 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**

 ****I dunno, this one spoke to me today, and I really wanted to share it with you guys.**


	3. Go, Dean

It's four months, twenty-three days, thirteen hours, and a handful of minutes before you see Dean again.

You know, because there's a counter on your heart, and it constantly keeps track of the time since you last laid eyes on Dean Winchester, official winner of the Worst Soulmate Ever Award.

 **xxxxx**

Out of affection or torture, Dean left one of his flannels on your bed. The day after he leaves, you wrap yourself in it and stay in bed most of the day, weeping on and off. You feel completely hopeless.

 **xxxxx**

The next day, you go back to work. Trent calls you into his office an hour in.

"Close the door behind you, Y/N."

You obey, then sit in the chair in front of his desk. "What's up, boss?"

"What happened this weekend?"

You blink. "What?"

He smiles and stands, moving toward the bookshelf he keeps. "You've been staring at Janet's hair since you got here. Since she's the only redhead in the office, I'm assuming you met a certain someone this weekend?"

You look down at your hands, twisted painfully in your lap. "Yeah," you say softly.

He hands you a book, and you take it. You smile a little when you realize it's a color-naming book. "Take that," he says softly. "It should help."

"Thank you."

He settles back in his office chair, a genial smile on his face. "Do you want to take a few days off? Spend some time with him? God knows you've earned it."

You take a deep breath and meet his eyes, your eyes dry. "No," you say softly, "That won't be necessary."

He stares at you, then sympathy and sadness cross his features. "Did it… Not go well?"

Sometimes soulmates don't work out. It's a sad reality that sometimes the person who's made for you, the one who brings color into the black and white world, can't stay. It's not super common, but it does happen. Sometimes it's past trauma that damages a person beyond the ability to love. Sometimes a person just can't stand their soulmates. It's a terrible thing, every time.

You shake your head. "No, uh… He has a dangerous job, and he didn't want to…"

Trent nods, and you're relieved that you don't have to say it out loud.

"Do you want to take a couple of days to be with _yourself?"_

You shake your head. "No, I, uh… I need the distraction."

He nods. "All right. Back to work then."

 **xxxxx**

Two weeks after Dean's gone, on a Saturday, the doorbell rings.

You're a little ashamed of the last fourteen days of your life. Every time the phone rings, there's a knock at the door, and you've even started keeping a pathetically close eye on your _emails,_ you jump to answer. Just in case it's him.

 _Pathetic._

But you can't stop the eager way you fling the door open, or the way you deflate when the man in front of you is short, a little bit round, and balding. "Y/N Y/L/N?"

You nod. "May I help you?"

He hands you a clipboard. "Just need you to sign for the delivery, ma'am."

You frown. "Delivery?"

He backs up and points. When you look to where he's gesturing, you see red.

Sitting in your driveway is a very sensible, beautiful, four-door, blue sedan.

 _That bastard bought me a car._

You don't know whether to laugh or scream, so you just sign for the damn thing and take the keys.

 **xxxxx**

There's a note in the glovebox.

 _Sweetheart,_

 _I know it's only three miles to town._ _Please_ _humor me._

 _D_

You press your forehead to the steering wheel of your new car, struggling to contain yourself.

 **xxxxx**

You drive the car, like he asks, and you're irritated the find out that you love it. It's cute and a beautiful color and not having to carry the groceries home is nice. So you decide not to be mad about the car.

You _do_ get mad about the money he starts sending.

It shows up in thick envelopes, a few hundred dollars, every couple of weeks. It makes you murderous, because _you can take care of yourself._ You don't need it, so when you start recognizing his handwriting (and how the hell can handwriting be sexy?), you start sending it the fuck back.

The next couple go that way, then there's a note on the back of the envelope.

 _Sweetheart,_

 _Please._

 _D_

So you write a note back on the back.

 _D,_

 _Fuck you._

 _Y/N_

You're very pleased with yourself when you send it back that time. _Take that._

 **xxxxx**

You don't realize the next envelope has money in it until you open it. You assume that he had Sam write it, and this time, the note is on a piece of paper inside with _several_ hundred dollars.

 _Sweetheart._

 _Please let me do this._

 _D_

You growl a little and shove the money back into the envelope. You don't want to return it now because it's been opened. You don't _think_ anyone would ask questions, but you can't be positive. And you're not willing to get him in trouble just to defy him.

Which he probably knows.

 _Dick._

 **xxxxx**

You just start putting the money into a savings account, mad at his high-handedness, touched by his desire to take care of you. _Jackass._

Other than that, you live your life.

Trent promotes you to his direct assistant, which you also excel at. It gives you a little more money, making what Dean sends you even more unnecessary. But you quietly take it, because what else are you supposed to do?

You use some of that money to redecorate the house now that you can see the colors. You choose rich purples, royal blues, a heavy cream color, and a deep forest green that reminds you of the first color you ever saw. You try not to think about it too much.

So your life falls into the same routine as it was in before Dean came crashing into it like a comet, lighting everything up and leaving color and heartache in its wake. You even consider getting the cat again.

So for four months, twenty-three days, thirteen hours, and a handful of minutes, you continue to live. You hope that he wasn't lying when he said he'd come back to you, but the hope fades with every passing day, and when you open the door to see him standing on your porch early one evening, you're taken completely by surprise.

 **xxxxx**

When Dean leaves her, he honestly never intends to see her again.

The things she said roll around in his head as he drives away the day after he meets her, but he's set on his path. He wants her safe, and the best way to ensure that is to keep her the fuck away from him.

That night, they pull into a motel, and Dean is in a terrible mood. He slams the door to Baby, and he barely even flinches. He just doesn't have it in him to care.

"Dean-"

"We're not talking about this, Sam." When it looks like his brother is going to continue, "Sam, I will break your nose. I'm not kidding. Just shut the fuck up about Y/N, all right?"

Sam stays silent, and Dean is both relieved and not.

 **xxxxx**

Two weeks later, he leaves Sam doing research on whatever they're hunting that's targeting unfaithful women. Dean goes to a car lot.

He negotiates and gets her a good, reliable car. He pays out the ass for it to be delivered to her, and writes the note in the glovebox before it goes.

It assuages his guilt for about a week.

Then he starts sending her money. He uses a post office box for the address, and when it starts coming back, he bites back a curse. _Stubborn,_ he thinks fondly.

"Sam," he says, holding the note that says _fuck you_ on it. There's a strange combination of pride and irritation warring in him. "I need your help."

Sam looks up from the book he's reading. They're in the bunker, for once having no case to chase. "What?"

"I need you to address an envelope to Y/N for me."

Sam frowns, and Dean realizes he didn't share what he was doing with his brother. "Envelope?"

Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I've been sending her money, and she keeps sending it back. I think she recognizes my handwriting."

Instead of being irritated, like Dean expects, Sam chuckles. "Good for her. Serves you right."

Dean scowls. "Shut up, Sam, just address the damn thing."

Sam takes the envelope and pen, but looks at Dean carefully. "Why are you doing this, Dean?"

Dean sighs and sits across from him. "I… I need to take care of her, Sammy. I need to make sure she's all right."

Sam stares at him for another second, then addresses the envelope without a word.

 **xxxxx**

The next several weeks go fine. But four months, twenty-three days, twelve hours, and thirty-two minutes after he sees her for what is supposed to be the last time, things go to shit.

He knows, because there is a counter on his heart that keeps the time. He hunts like a madman to distract himself, but it keeps time down to the minute.

It's a vampire nest. Bodies drained of blood, torn necks, the whole nine yards. It's weird that there's another vamp case so soon after one at her place, and this is just a few towns over from her. It makes him feel guilty, makes him think of how he lied to her when he said he'd come back. But he just works the case.

When they find the nest, they wait until late afternoon, then go in.

It's a bloodbath. Dean lets the predator in him take over, and again, his machete slices through them like hot butter. He moves smoothly, twirling and ducking and evading. It makes his blood sing like nothing else does.

Nothing but her.

He gets to the second floor of the abandoned home the vampires are using. He breaks down a door to his left and enters, the blood lust still thrumming through his veins.

When he sees what's in the room, the world comes to a harsh, tires-screeching-on-asphalt halt.

There's a girl hanging from bound wrists attached to the ceiling. She's got the same build, same height, same hair color. She's wearing a tattered blue sweater, like the one his soulmate wore on the night he met her.

Dean's shock allows the vampire to take him by surprise. It gets one long cut across his abdomen before Dean's instincts kick in. He turns and cuts its head off in a clean, hard slice. Then he drops the machete and carefully approaches the woman being held captive.

He can tell from here that she's dead, and why can't can't _feel_ any of his _limbs?_ He gently cuts her down with the knife from his boot and lowers her to the floor. He brushes the hair from her face tenderly, and he can suddenly feel his heartbeat _everywhere._

It's not Y/N. He releases a shuddering breath, then stands.

"Sam!"

"Dean!" Sam enters the room, and his eyes are immediately glued to Dean's stomach. "Shit!"

Dean looks down at his stomach, where the blood is slowly seeping out. He shakes his head. "I'm all right, Sam. I…" He trails off and meets his brother's eyes, silently begging him to understand.

Sam looks behind Dean, and his eyes widen when he sees the girl. "That's not…"

Dean shakes his head. "No, but I… Sam, I've gotta-" He runs a frustrated, terrified hand through his hair.

"Go, Dean," Sam says softly. "Go, I'll clean up and call a cab. _Go."_

Dean nods and is out the door and in the Impala before he can think clearly. He drives ninety miles the whole way to the big house she calls home. His heart is racing and the pressure behind his eyes is painful and almost unbearable. When he reaches to turn the radio off, unable to think with it on, he realizes that his hand is shaking hard enough to make it difficult to turn the dial.

He makes what should be a fifty minute trip in twenty.

When he gets to her front door, he closes his eyes for a second and braces himself. _She's fine, she's fine, she's fine._ Then he raises his hand and knocks.

She opens the door in a grey t-shirt and tight, faded jeans. Her hair is loose around her face, her eyes are wide, and her pretty mouth has dropped open a little.

The relief that washes through him is powerful enough to take him out at the knees, and he drops to them gratefully, staring up at her in wonder.

 _Oh, fuck, thank God._

 **xxxxx**

You're watching an old sitcom rerun when there's a screech of tires outside. You frown, but don't think much of it. You don't even really move until there's a knock at the door.

You stand and go to answer it, watching the TV until you're unable to see it. Then you unlock the door and open it, finally turning to look at the door.

The sight of Dean, bloodied, with a desperate, terrible look on his face, has your heart stuttering to a stop. Before you can do more than open your mouth, he falls to his knees in front of you, a reverent set to his features.

"Dean?" you whisper, stepping forward to close the distance between the two of you. "Dean, honey-"

His hands reach out to cup the backs of your thighs, and he pulls you forward to press his face into your belly. He's breathing hard, and you gently place one hand on his shoulder and start running the fingers of the other hand through his hair. "Dean," you say softly, "Dean, what happened? Are you okay? Is Sam all right?"

He just keeps taking deep breaths, so you just close your eyes and let all of the emotions that want to wash over you do just that. Relief at his proximity, fear at his silence and for what may have happened, and, as you probably should have known, the very beginnings of love.

You're there for several minutes, him breathing you in, and you holding him, before you speak.

"Dean, honey, you're bleeding. Come on inside, we can get you cleaned up."

He takes in a shuddering breath, the pulls his face away and looks up at you. "Yeah, all right, sweetheart."

He slowly gets to his feet, and you pull him into the house by his hand. You shut and lock the door behind him, then walk him to the downstairs bathroom.

"Take your shirt off and show me what we're working with," you say softly as you pull the first aid kit out of the cabinet.

You watch as he peels his flannel, then his t-shirt off. His eyes are devouring you, making you a little weak in the knees. The warmth that's gathering in your belly flees, however, when you see the seeping gash across his otherwise perfect stomach. You suck your breath in sharply, then your eyes fly up to meet his. "What happened?"

His breathing is still off, and you give in to the urge to step forward and run your thumb along his cheekbone, wiping droplets of blood away. "Dean, honey, talk to me."

"Vamp nest," he finally rasps. "There was a girl… She looked like… She didn't make it, and… She had your _hair…"_

And suddenly you understand. He thought you were the girl at the vampire's nest, the hostage. He thought you were _dead,_ just for a moment.

Without hesitation, you step forward and wrap your arms around his neck. You lay soft kisses up his neck and jaw, pressing yourself to him, injury be damned. He apparently feels the same way, because his arms are like iron around you, crushing you into him.

"I'm okay," you whisper into his ear, your fingers spearing through his hair again. "I'm right here, I'm safe, it's okay, I'm all right-"

You keep up your steady stream of words and comfort for what feels like a long, long time. He just keeps holding you tight, soaking you both in his blood, his face buried in your neck.

You gently peel yourself away, your fingers moving from his hair to stroke his face, trying to relax the pain and fear there. His eyes are wet, and you realize that your neck is wet with his tears, too. "Hey," you say softly, stifling a few tears of your own. "Come on, shh, I'm okay. Let me patch you up, okay?"

He nods, and you guide him so he's leaning against the bathroom counter, facing you. You run a soft washcloth under warm water and clean him up gingerly, being as gentle as possible. Once it's clean, you realize that the cut is pretty shallow. You apply butterfly bandages, focusing on being as soft with your touches as possible.

When you're done, you lean back and survey your handiwork. You smile and pat him on the hip. "All right, you're done." You smile up at him. "Good as new."

He's still looking at you with serious eyes. "You're covered in blood."

You look down and realize the grey t-shirt you're wearing is soaked in red from your embrace. "Oh. That's okay. I can change."

You stand, and are forcefully made aware that the most beautiful human being you've ever seen is very, _very_ close to you. You feel yourself start to blush, and you smile ruefully at him. "I'll just… Go do that. Change, I mean. Clothes. My shirt. I'll go change my shirt." You turn and flee.

Once you're upstairs and in your bedroom, you groan and cover your face with your hands. _Very smooth._

You sigh and strip your shirt off, and find another soft one, because it's almost bedtime and comfort is important. You walk with it in your hand to the bathroom without really thinking about it, focused on getting a cloth and cleaning the blood off of your stomach.

You're stopped dead in your tracks by Dean.

He's shirtless still, and you're suddenly very aware of all of that broad muscle and lean body that's bare for you. He's absolutely _devouring_ you with his gaze, his hot green eyes making you tremble before he even touches you.

Your breathing quickens, and lazy heat curls through you as his eyes move up from your waist, to your breasts covered by your bra, to your neck, your lips, and finally landing on your eyes. You see the leashed hunger in his gaze, and it pulls a soft whimper from you.

That seems to snap something deep within him, and he crosses the space between you in two quick strides. Your arms lift and wrap around his neck as he shoves you against the wall, and a soft cry escapes when his lips crash to yours.

His hands are roaming, squeezing your hips, tracing feather light touches along the planes of your stomach, and coming up to cup your breasts. Your whimpering and moving against him, taking the opportunity to touch your soulmate for the first time.

You're reminded again how amazing he is. His hard, muscled stomach is warm beneath your hands, and you let your fingers trace the ridges there, being careful of his injury. His broad shoulders are _incredible,_ and his soft mouth against yours is chasing all thought from your mind.

There's a deep growl in his chest, responding to the soft whimpers from yours. You're moving your hips against his, your hands are fluttering against his skin, and his calloused fingers are starting their light dance against your stomach.

When his finger slowly traces the cup of your bra, you jerk a little, and your hands tighten on his stomach.

Right on top of the slash across his abdomen.

He gasps and winces, and you slam yourself back into the wall harder in an effort to get away from him. "Oh, God, Dean, I'm so sorry, fuck, Dean, I'm-"

He stops you with his lips on yours. "Shh, it's all right, sweetheart, shh," he murmurs against your mouth.

You sigh into him, then pull back to kiss his jaw. You realize that he's leaning against you hard, and some of it is because he wants you, but it's also probably because he's lost a fuck ton of blood. "Dean," you say softly against his stubbly cheek. "You need to eat."

He's nuzzling your neck, which is distracting as hell. "Sweetheart, I think I agree."

You know he's not talking about food, and you feel yourself flush with arousal. He feels that against your skin, and chuckles while he presses tiny kisses at the warm place where your shoulder meets your neck.

You smile and gently push him away. "Dean, let me feed you _food,_ please."

He groans and presses his forehead to yours. "All right, sweetheart."

 **xxxxx**

You feed him spaghetti, which is what you were having anyway. You also make him drink water, and you limit him to _one_ shot of whiskey. He grumbles, and you're surprised when he agrees, but he lets you boss him around a little.

Then you fuss around him until he's sitting on the floor in front of you on the couch. You're rubbing his bare shoulders, upper back, and chest, while he tells you about the last four months.

"I guess we've just been- _ow,_ God dammit! We've, uh, just been hunting. Kind of nonstop."

You smile when he bitches about the pain, but you can feel him relaxing beneath your ministrations, so you continue. You crave his closeness, your hands on his bare skin. This is filling all of that quite nicely.

"Where's Sam?" you ask softly.

He groans deeply while you work at a knot in his shoulder with your knuckles. "Probably holed up in a motel somewhere."

You frown. "Dean, call him and tell him to come here. When you guys are in town, I don't want you staying in cheap little motels. I have guest bedrooms for a reason."

He leans his head against your knee. "He's fine."

You sigh and stop your massage to wrap your arms around him and rest your chin on his shoulder. "Dean, come on. Call him, tell him I have food and a bed for him."

 **xxxxx**

When Sam gets there, you bully him into letting you patch up the couple of small cuts he has, and you put a cold compress on his head where there's a sizable lump. Then you feed him, feed Dean again (good grief, it's a good thing you enjoy cooking, because the man can _eat),_ and listen to their stories about the last few weeks.

Werewolves and ghosts and ghouls. It all scares the shit out of you, them being out there fighting it. It must show in your face, because Dean places a big hand on your knee beneath the table.

"What about you, Y/N?" Sam asks kindly. He must have noticed, too. _I've got to stop being so transparent._

So you smile. "Uh, nothing. Everything's the same. Except, of course, the car," you give Dean a look out of the corner of your eye as you say it, and he looks away, "And I got a promotion."

Sam grins. "That's great!"

You chuckle and stand to start clearing plates away. "It's no big deal, just following Trent around all day and making sure nothing gets missed. It's boring, but I'm good at it, and it takes up the time in the day."

"Trent?" Dean asks, and while he tries to be casual, there's no missing the tightness in his voice

You laugh and wink at Sam, who's hiding a smile behind a beer (you're not a beer drinker, but you've started keeping it around for your guys). "He's my boss, Dean, and he's happily married, so chill on the jealousy."

He smirks at you, then watches as you yawn. "All right, guys. I'm going to head to bed. You guys do whatever you want." You absent-mindedly press a kiss to Dean's cheek, then place a hand on Sam's shoulder for a very brief moment before heading upstairs and getting dressed for bed.

You shoot a quick text to Trent, letting him know you'll be taking a personal day tomorrow. He texts back immediately (he's great like that). Then crawl into your bed, feeling happier and lighter, with your Winchesters under your roof, than you have in a long time.

 **xxxxx**

You fall into a fitful sleep, and you're awake the moment the guys climb the stairs. You listen to Sam for into his room, but Dean's door doesn't shut.

Frowning, you get out of bed and peek your head out to see him in the hallway. "Dean?"

He's staring into his room, and the look on his face has you walking out to step in front of him. His eyes slowly come down to look at you. "Dean, honey, what's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing, sweetheart." Despite his words, he doesn't move an inch.

You roll your eyes and place a gentle hand on his arm. "Dean, talk to me."

He looks up above your head, runs a hand through his hair, and swallows hard again. "Can I… Um, can I _sleep_ with you? Just sleep, nothing else, I swear to God-"

You silence him by bringing your hand up to his cheek, cupping his face and smiling a little. "Of course you can, Dean. Always, of course you can." You reach down to take his hand and tug him toward your bedroom.

When he comes in, you blush furiously, because he's never been in this room, and now that you've redecorated…

The whole room is done in the beautiful green of his eyes. There's some of that heavy cream color, and some dark blue, too. The flannel he left rests on the foot of the bed, so you can wrap yourself in it whenever the mood strikes you.

He stares around the room, then his eyes land on his shirt. His mouth quirks up at the corner and he cocks an eyebrow at you. You shrug and pull him toward the bed. "Shut up," you say softly with a smile. "Come to bed."

You crawl into bed together, and he ends up on his back. You're pressed against his side, your head resting on his chest. You lay your arm across his waist gently, and toss a leg across his, holding him close to you.

You're going to appreciate this. Because you're not willing to pull the wool over your eyes. He's not staying. He's not going to keep falling asleep next to you, he's only here now because he got more scared that you were dead than he was of losing you.

But right now, you're wrapped in his strong arms, enveloped in his musky scent, and he's pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Pressed up against to your hunter, you sleep harder than you have in four months, twenty-three days, seventeen hours, and a handful of minutes.

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**

 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**

 **Reviews and comments give me life and keep me going.**

 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**

 ****This story is just pouring out of me, guys, I kind of can't stop it. So we're just gonna hang on for the ride.**


	4. Dude, You've Got it Bad

Sam lies in bed on his back, his hands tucked behind his head, and wonders how the hell his brother got so lucky and so stupid at the same time.

He's listening to her sing in the kitchen as she cooks. He can smell the bacon frying and coffee brewing. He likes her a lot. She's sweet, and her fussing over him last night was cute. And she handles Dean's possessive, weirdly protective ways with a smile and a soft touch.

The last few months have been hard on Sam. Dean has wanted to be hunting nonstop, and God knows Sam is familiar with using work to avoid emotional crap, so he's been going along with it. But he's _tired._ He wants to maybe stay here for a few days, or go back to the bunker and chill. He's leaning toward staying here, because it sounds like she'll cook for them, and he wants to convince Dean to bring her with them.

Sam remembers when he first met Jess, and the fear that had thundered through him when he realized her eyes weren't grey. He's from a dangerous world, and he worried when he met her that she was going to be hurt because of it, even if he _was_ trying to get out of it.

In the end, he was right. She _did_ get hurt. She died for it.

But Sam wouldn't trade the time he had with her for anything. Not only the color she brought into his life, but the way she made him laugh, or the way her skin felt against his. He still loves Jess, he can feel it with every beat of his heart.

When he realized that Dean could see the color of Y/N's eyes, he genuinely felt nothing but thrilled for his older brother. _Maybe this will chill him out, soften him a little,_ he thought as he watched Dean help the girl up and comfort her without words.

And then, of course, the idiot decided to _leave_ her. Sam couldn't believe it, and while he meant it when he told her that he'd work on Dean to get him to change his mind, he didn't even know where to begin. How do you convince someone _not_ to leave their soulmate?

"Guys! Get your asses out of bed, it's time to eat!"

He grins when her words floating up the staircase interrupt his thoughts. He likes her a lot. He hopes Dean changes his mind soon, because Sam wants her with them.

Sam wonders if maybe he should take matters into his own hands.

 **xxxxx**

Dean wakes up without her in bed with him, which makes him frown. But he's in her warm bed, which smells like her, so he stays there.

Sleeping next to her was probably the best sleep he's ever gotten. Every time he woke up, either with nightmares or just to turn over, she was there, warm and soft and a hell of a cuddler. It was incredibly comforting, and he's vaguely worried about sleeping without her next to him tonight.

Because he _can't_ stay. He just can't. No matter how much he loves sleeping next to her, or how much he'd love waking up next to her, he can't. She's too young, too kind, too overwhelmingly good to be dragged into his dirty, violent world. It would be way too easy to just… Fall in love with her.

No. He'll leave today.

The smell of coffee registers in his brain when she calls out. "Guys! Get your asses out of bed, it's time to eat!"

He wallows in bed for a second, and allows himself to think about what it would be like to just be here, be hers. Waking up next to her every day, talking to her every night. None of the guilt or danger or tragedy that colors every single part of his existence. Taking her out, making her laugh, finding out what kinds of movies and books and music she likes.

He thinks about it for just a second, and the way his heart aches for it to be true lets him know he can't have it.

 **xxxxx**

You are not a stupid woman. You know they're not staying for long.

What you don't know is how long they _are_ staying, so you make breakfast burritos for them, something easily wrapped up and taken with them if they need to leave this morning.

It hurts, but you're resolutely working on accepting the situation, because being upset about it every time isn't going to help anyone. It's not going to fix the situation. And it may make it so he _never_ comes back to see you.

So you make breakfast and just try to breathe.

When they come thundering down the stairs, you smile at the appreciative groans they both give when they get to the kitchen. "You guys have low standards," you say with a chuckle, turning to put plates on the table.

When you turn back to start pouring coffee, Dean is in your way. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then bends to kiss you thoroughly. You shudder and immediately respond, kissing him back enthusiastically. You feel him smile against your lips before he pulls away and kisses your forehead again.

"Someone's a morning person," you say softly as he walks around you to sit at the table.

"He's really not," Sam says easily from his chair. "Thanks," as he accepts the cup of coffee you hand him. "He's kind of bitchy in the mornings."

You laugh and sit down. "That's all right, I've dabbled in bitchiness in the mornings, too."

Dean hits Sam on the back of the head as he sits. "Shut up, Sammy."

You glare. "Hey, no violence at the breakfast table. House rules."

He grins and winks at you, making warmth spread through your belly. You like having them here, even for just a few hours.

 **xxxxx**

They decide to stay until they find a case. You're cleaning up dishes while they discuss and make that decision.

"National papers start rolling in here soon," You say loudly to be heard over the water running. "If you want to look at the last few days, they're in the office."

"You get national papers sent here?" Sam asks, coming up next to you to start drying the dishes.

You smile in thanks, then nod. "Yeah. I like to keep up on current events, so all the big papers come here. You're welcome to them."

"Thanks," he says with a smile.

Your phone goes off, and you dry your hands quickly to answer. It's Trent, texting to ask if you'd be willing to take care of some work things on your personal day. You agree, then quickly finish dishes.

That done, you go to the office and come back to the kitchen with your laptop, the files you need, and a huge stack of newspapers in your arms. As soon as Dean sees you, he stands to take the newspapers, which are starting to fall. "What's all this?"

You smile and put your stuff on the table. "Newspapers for you, reports for me. I've got to do some work, so I figure we can all work together for a while."

 **xxxxx**

Dean's pretending to look for a case. He's watching her, instead.

"Jerry, look, I'm trying to be patient. But Trent asked for that report three weeks ago. Where the hell is it?"

He grins at the tone in her voice. It's like a whip, cracking through the late morning air. If he was the one on the other end of the phone, he'd sit up and pay attention. He'd also ask her out, maybe pitch his voice low to fluster her. Take her to dinner, somewhere nice, then take her back home and-

"Dude, you've got it bad," Sam whispers with a smirk.

"Shut up," Dean snaps, picking up the newspaper in front of him and glaring at his brother. He feels his cheeks warm, which irritates him.

"Jerry, this is totally ridiculous. If I don't get that report in the next ten minutes, you're going to need to update your resume. Am I understood?"

She hangs up the phone and groans. "Idiots," she mutters, shuffling the papers next to her. "Surrounded, I'm surrounded by them, I'm drowning, send help-"

Dean watches with amusement as she continues her stream of consciousness bitching, making marks with the pen she alternately chews on. _She's… Really pretty,_ he thinks, turning the newspaper page absent-mindedly to prove that he's actually looking for a case.

"Dean," Sam whispers, and his serious tone makes Dean turn back to look at him again, which is not nearly as fun. "Dean, why don't we stay for a few days? You could spend some time with Y/N, and we've been going nonstop for-"

"No, Sam," he says shortly. "We're leaving today. Case or no."

"I thought you said you were leaving when you found one?" she asks, her tone neutral and flat.

Dean looks at her with wide eyes. She may be able to make her voice indifferent, but the hurt in her pretty eyes is clear as day. Dean winces. "Sweetheart, it's-"

"Best this way," she says, voice still without inflection. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard the slogan." She looks back down at her work, the fire clearly gone out of her.

Dean looks at the paper in his hands, now desperate to find something, _anything,_ that will take him away from here. Away from her, away from causing her pain.

Abruptly, Sam stands, grabs Dean's arm, and drags him out of the room.

Once they're in the living room, Dean tears his arm away. "What the fuck?"

"Dean, are you fucking kidding me?" Sam snaps in a whisper, running his hands through his hair. "What the fuck was that?"

"What the fuck was _what?"_ Dean takes Sam's cue and is whispering, too.

"Dean, I can't believe you. How insensitive can you be?"

Dean's starting to get angry. "Well, what the fuck am I supposed to say, Sam? That I'll stay here with her? That I'll, what, get a job? Maybe we'll, we'll, get married? Have two-point-five kids? Come on, man, you know I can't do that!"

"Guys," she says quietly from the doorway behind him. "It's all right. I understand, there's no need for this."

Dean whirls and stares at her, his heart dropping. "Sweetheart, I-"

She holds a hand up. "Dean, stop, please," she says softly. "Please, I don't want to hear anymore excuses, or justifications, or whatever. I'm… I mean, I'm not okay with this, but I get it."

Dean takes a step forward, Sam completely slipping his mind. "Y/N…"

"Dean," she says softly, looking up at him with those wide, sad eyes. "It's okay."

He shakes his head and goes to her until he's close enough to touch her. "Please, sweetheart, I'm sorry."

She takes her own step forward and presses her face into his chest. Her arms slip around his waist, and he wraps his own arms around her, one hand behind her head and holding her to him. "I know, Dean," she says into him, "I'm not trying to force you to stay here with me. I want… I don't know what I want, just please stop apologizing."

He kisses the top of her head. "I can't," he whispers into her hair.

She sighs. "I know."

 **xxxxx**

Sam leaves the room as he sees her in the doorway. He's _livid._ Goddamn Dean, leaving the only goddamn person who can put up with his ridiculous, overprotective, irritating _goddamn_ ass.

His stupid brother has finally, _finally_ met his _fucking_ soulmate, and he won't stay with her.

Sam decides that he's _definitely_ taking matters into his own hands.

 **xxxxx**

You're sitting at the table, finishing the work Trent requested, trying to focus.

You're not mad at Dean, per se. You understand why he won't stay, you _do._ He's trying to protect you from his world, and from what you've seen, it makes sense. If you're presented again with a vampire, you'll probably run into the night, screaming.

It doesn't mean you're not hurt, it just means it upsets you. But there's nothing to be done, you can't make him stay, so you do your best to be stoic. So you're sitting here, working, trying to ignore Dean's kicked puppy dog eyes that he's shooting you.

The screeching of tires has you looking up. Sam disappeared when you and Dean spoke, headed outside, and you haven't seen him since. You frown and meet Dean's eyes, then you both stand and go to the door. When you open it, you just stare at the driveway for a moment, before realizing what's wrong.

The Impala's gone.

"Fuck!"

You wince when Dean shouts, and you can't help the physical flinch, either. You straighten quickly, and you're relieved when you turn around and he hasn't noticed, he's too busy glaring at the driveway. "What the _fuck?"_

He's agitated, and you can't resist the urge to put a hand on his warm chest. "Dean, calm down, just call him. Maybe he just… Went to the grocery store?"

He shakes his head, still glaring at the empty spot where the Impala used to be. "No, no, he's just being an asshole. He thinks that if he _abandons_ me here, that I'll stay."

You wince again, and you're again glad that he's not looking at you. It feels like he's _desperate_ to leave you, and that hurts. A lot.

But he looks upset, so you try to think around the pain in your chest. "Um, Dean, take my car." You push past him to go into the house. "You can follow him if you go quick."

He follows you, frowning. "What about you?"

You blink. "What about me, what?"

"If I take your car, what are you going to do?"

You struggle to smile, but somehow manage it. "Dean, I can still walk. It will be fine, you'll get it back to me."

 **xxxxx**

"Dean, I can still walk. It will be fine, you'll get it back to me."

Dean stares at her, his mind going a little blank. "Y/N…"

She smiles tightly again, and there's pain in her eyes. Despite that, she says, "Go, Dean, you can still catch him. I'll be fine."

He takes all of her in quickly. That terrible ache in her pretty eyes. The little hunch in her shoulders, telling him that she's trying to hide her hurt. Her soft hand, holding out the keys to her car, trusting him to bring it back.

She's saying "go," but everything about her body language tells him that she doesn't want him to, that she's hurting. And everything in him wants to wrap her up and erase the pain from her face.

Before he can do either, his phone rings. He pulls it out, glares at the caller ID, and flips it open. "God dammit, Sam, I-"

"Dean, you're too fucking dumb for your own good sometimes, you know that?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sammy, don't-"

"No, just shut up, Dean. Listen for a second. I found a case a few states over. Just a salt and burn, it's not going to be difficult. Definitely _not_ a two-man job. So I want you to stay there with Y/N. I'll be back in a couple of days."

Fury washes through Dean, along with a twinge of what feels a lot like, but can't possibly be, fear. "Sam, god dammit, you're not my mother."

"No, but someone has to tell you when you're being an idiot," his brother snaps. "Just… Talk to her, Dean. Stay with her. You're being an idiot, you're being stubborn, and you're _hurting her."_

Dean winces. "Sam, it will be a lot worse if-"

"No, it won't, Dean," Sam says softly. "Dean, this is killing her. Probably not literally, but having the only person in the world made for you turn away? That has to suck."

Dean shakes his head, but refuses to meet her eyes. "Sam, just get your ass back here." _She understands, she has to. She says she understands. There's no other option._

"No, Dean. Stay there, hang out with Y/N, get to know her a little. I'll be back in a couple of days." When Dean opens his mouth to argue again, Sam interrupts. "And I took the air out of Y/N's tires already, so don't even bother."

The call disconnects. Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a moment, then turns to look at her. "Sam, uh… He wants me to stay here. With you. Until he's done working the case he found."

 **xxxxx**

"Sam, uh… He wants me to stay here. With you. Until he's done working the case he found."

His words send a myriad of emotions washing through you. Relief, fear, anxiety, happiness. So you just stare at him, unsure of which feeling your heart is going to latch onto. "Oh."

He rubs the back of his neck, casting his eyes to the floor. "Yeah, uh, but I can go, I'll just have to-"

"Oh, you don't have to go," you say quickly. Then you wince. _Keep it together._ "I just mean, um, if you want to go, obviously, go ahead, you can still use my car. But if you want to stay, I mean, um, it'll be… I mean, it'll be _boring,_ but you can stay. If you want. But you don't have to."

He meets your eyes again, and your heartbeat goes into overdrive. _Holy shit, he's gorgeous._

"I can, uh… I can stay. I should, uh, air up the tires in your car, anyway."

You can't help the smile that pulls the corners of your lips up. "Oh… Okay."

 **xxxxx**

You're watching Dean sit on your couch awkwardly, hiding the smile on your face. You're standing at the top of the stairs, having just taken a shower, and now you just… Watch him.

His big shoulders rippling beneath his shirt as he rubs his hands nervously on his thighs, stopping every once in a while to rub his hands together, or run one through his hair. Those bowed legs, which you can't see clearly because he's facing away from you, but still make your heart beat faster.

 _Yum._

You know he feels awkward, and you sort of do, too. But, for some reason, it's completely blanketed by a thick feeling of _rightness._ He belongs here, he belongs with you, and you with him. Even if this is just for a day or two, you're not going to let awkwardness get in the way.

You come and walk around the couch, smiling when he meets your eyes. "Hey, you," you say softly, sitting next to him and tucking your feet beneath you. Your outfit is carefully chosen to be casual _and_ alluring, and it took more time than you have spent on clothes in your life to put together. In the end, you chose a black, flowy top and a dark pair of indigo leggings. You can tell by the way his eyes trace up your legs that you succeeded.

 _Ha._

You smile. "I should take a look at your stomach."

He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "I'm fine."

You put a hand on his arm, suddenly concerned. "Would you let me if I told you that it would make _me_ feel better?"

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't argue when you slowly move your hand to the hem of his shirt, exposing the cut along his middle. You run your fingers along his warm skin, trying not to be distracted by the feel of him under your hands and trying to focus on making sure there's no infection.

You smile and drop his t-shirt, ignoring the way your breath quickens when you look at his _ridiculous_ face. "You look good, Winchester."

He smirks. "I've, uh, I've had worse."

You lean in a little. "Like what?"

He sighs and leans back, and you can't help but settle close and rest your head on his shoulder. "You don't want to hear my war stories, Y/N," he says softly.

You nod. "Okay. Well, what else do you want to talk about?"

"Tell me _your_ war stories."

 **xxxxx**

So you do.

Not that you have war stories that rival his, of course. But you tell him about your first boyfriend, a gentleman named Riley, and how he left you quite literally crying in the dirt. "The fact that I was six doesn't make it any less traumatic."

You tell him about college, about how it totally jaded you, took your dreams of saving the world away. So you went with what you're good at instead of what you wanted, and now you work with Trent, who's great, but you feel a little like you're wasting time.

You tell him about your parents, how your mom was a hardass and your father was a dreamer. How, even though they were soulmates, they fought constantly and drove each other mad, not in a good way. And how about there's a part of you that will always be bitter that they took away your perfect vision of soulmates.

Before you know it, he's laid on his back on the couch, and you're settled on his chest. Your cheek is resting on him, and you listen to his heartbeat as you speak. His arms are around you, and his fingertips are running up and down your back in an obnoxiously comforting gesture.

"Your turn," you murmur when you run out of interesting stories.

"My turn for what?"

"Tell me your good stories."

There's a beat of silence, and you worry that you've upset him, but he starts to speak.

He tells you about his mom, how she would make him rice and tomato soup when he was sick. How she would sing, "Hey Jude," to him, which makes you wince in guilt. When he feels it, his fingers pause, and they're replaced with his big, warm palm. He slips it beneath your shirt, running it up and down your spine again, and you relax.

He tells you about the few times he was able to make sure Sam had actual childhood memories. Fireworks, watching movies, Christmases and birthdays with stolen gifts. He tells you about Bobby taking care of the two of them, of making sure he played catch with Dean instead of teaching him to shoot.

The stories go from good ones to… Hard ones.

He tells you about his mother dying, how it drove his dad crazy. How he dragged two little boys back and forth across the country while he satisfied his need for revenge.

He tells you about Sam leaving for college, how it left a hole in Dean that he's still not sure is filled.

He tells you about going to hell, being The Righteous Man, about Sam being The Boy King, and everything that happened after. For _years,_ he hasn't caught a break.

You would be terrified, but you're just heartbroken for the man beneath you. When his breath hitches, you nuzzle your face into his chest, trying to offer comfort.

Eventually, you find yourself pressing kisses along his cheekbones, his nose, his jawline, his chin, letting him speak, letting him spill poison out that sounds like it's damn near as old as you are.

When he's silent for a long time, you finally capture his lips, kissing him gently. The only attention you pay to the tears on his cheeks is to wipe them away gently with your thumbs. But you say nothing, just keep kissing him softly, letting him expel the last of that poison into you.

He mouths along your jaw, down your neck, where he presses his face into the place where it dips into your shoulder.

"I shouldn't be here," he whispers into your skin, but you near the naked longing in his voice.

You run your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. "Yes, you should," You reply, also whispering.

"I'm going to _ruin_ you, Y/N."

"Maybe I need a little bit of ruining."

 **xxxxx**

Dean stays with her like that for a long time. Eventually, he turns so they're on their sides, facing one another.

Her face is still pressed into his chest, her arm slung possessively around his waist. He can tell that she's almost asleep, so he threads his fingers through her hair and lets his mind wander.

 _I should go._ He knows he should. He can't stay with her, no matter what she says. She has no idea what his life is like, and he doesn't want her to. He wants her here, safe and innocent.

 _So get up and go, jackass._ But he finds that he'd rather shoot himself in the foot than wake her up, so he stays where he is. And, to his surprise, he finds himself nodding off, too.

So, for the first time in his life, Dean falls asleep on the couch, next to his woman, in the middle of the day.

 **xxxxx**

The rest of the day passes lazily. You watch movies, cuddle on the couch, and don't move much. It's been an emotionally exhausting day, and both of you need this, so you just let it happen.

When it gets late enough, you turn to face him again, absentmindedly tracing his jaw with your fingertips. You can't stop _touching_ him. "I have to go to bed," you say softly. "I have to work tomorrow."

He nods. "All right, sweetheart."

You smile and slowly get off of the couch. Once you're standing, you stretch the stiffness out of yourself, then go to the kitchen to make sure he'll have enough food for tomorrow.

You sense that he follows you, but he stays silent while you check the fridge, and then start putting together a lunch for yourself. You turn and smile. "What's wrong?"

He's leaning in the doorway, looking absolutely _delicious._ He shrugs. "What the hell am I supposed to do all day?"

You finish what you're doing while you think, then go to him and wrap your arms around his middle. The way he puts his arms around you, which tucks your face neatly into his neck, makes something deep inside you warm. "You hang out here. Watch TV, rest. You'll drive me to work in the morning, so you have the car in case you need it, and you take a break, Dean." You lean back and gaze into his gorgeous face. "You deserve it."

 **xxxxx**

After dropping her off at work, which was more domesticity than Dean has had in a long, long time, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He drives around the town for a while, familiarizing himself with where she lives. He cases the place she works, and finds it remarkably secure. Keeping that in the back of his mind, he continues to look around town.

That burns about an hour, but he still has several before she's done for the day. She woke up at four in the morning, and when he bitched about it, she just pressed a kiss to his cheek with a laugh and murmured, "Someone here's gotta make the big bucks, which means that I have to wake up early. Sorry, baby."

He doesn't really mind. If he thinks about it, he doesn't really mind _anything_ about her. Which he should mind, but he doesn't, not really.

When he gets back to the house, he mows the lawn again. Then he goes around and fixes everything he didn't fix the first time. Most of it is basic maintenance, but it keeps him busy. What he doesn't know how to do, he looks up on the internet. It's… Peaceful.

When it gets around that time, he goes to pick her up to take her out to lunch. She argued, but he hit her with his version of Sam's puppy dog eyes, and she buckled in no time. _Ha._

 **xxxxx**

You've been working all morning, and you completely lose track of time. So when the door to the office opens and closes, you assume that it's that jackass, Jerry.

"I swear to Christ, if you don't have that report, Jerry, I'm going to have to do something heinous," you say evenly, not looking up from your computer.

"Well," Dean's deep timbre rumbles, "I don't have a report, but I have a few heinous ideas that we could try out."

Your head snaps up, and you feel your mouth tug itself into a smile. "Hi, you, and I'll just bet you do." He comes to stand next to you, and you move files into some semblance of order so you can figure out where the hell you left off when you get back. "I'm sorry, I'll be ready in just a sec."

"Take your time, sweetheart," he says genially.

You're finishing up when the door to the big office behind you opens. You turn and smile. "Trent! I'm going to lunch."

He's eyeing Dean, who straightens a little, which makes you want to roll your eyes. _Testosterone-fueled bullshit._

You try to think about it rationally, and you understand why Dean's in the beginning stages of posturing. Trent is much closer to your age than Dean is, just a few years older than you. He's not nearly as good-looking (but, to be fair, who the fuck is?), but he's still one of the prettier men walking around. He's also fairly fit (again, not as fit as Dean is), with blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

While Trent is not a threat, he kind of _looks_ like a threat.

"Trent!" you say happily, trying to diffuse the tension. "This is Dean."

Trent cocks an eyebrow. "Winchester? The, ah, meeting we talked about?" He steps forward to shake Dean's hand. You can practically _see_ hackles rising.

You nod warily, eyeing the two of them. "Yeah. He's taking me to lunch." You smile up at him. "Back in an hour?"

"No problem, Y/N. Take all the time you need." He turns to you, and you finally get a real smile from your boss. "God knows you deserve it."

You smile back, relieved. "All right, well it will be _around_ an hour, anyway."

Trent nods curtly at Dean. "Have a good time, take care of her." The words have more than one meaning, and you bristle a little. _Men._

Dean slings a possessive arm around your shoulders, and you can't contain your eye roll this time. "Will do," he says gruffly, and you let him lead you out of the building.

"Well, that was bullshit," you say easily.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head. "Yeah, sorry, sweetheart."

"Are not."

He shrugs and opens the door for you. "You're not wrong."

 **xxxxx**

When you get home, the tension goes up a notch. You make dinner while he sits at the table, looking at you with those bedroom eyes, making you slowly crazy. You concede that it may partly be in your head, but it can't _all_ be… Right?

You watch a movie on the couch, and you will your libido to chill the hell out while you lean against him. But his warmth is distracting, and you lose focus on the movie when he puts an arm around you and starts playing his fingers against your collarbone, beneath your blouse.

 _God bless, he's probably a god with those hands._

 _Stop it, pervert. Get it together._

 _Gonna be a long night._

 **xxxx**

You beat a quick retreat to the bathroom as soon as the movie is done, mumbling something about getting ready for bed.

Once you're there, you lock the bathroom behind you and splash cold water on your face. _Oh, God help me._ How are you supposed to be _around_ someone who _looks_ like that and not want to _fuck_ him until the sun comes up? He's ridiculously perfect, he's got to be _insane_ in bed, and he pretty clearly wants you back.

You stop in your internal dialogue and look at yourself in the mirror. _He wants me back._

There's no damn reason not to sleep with Dean Winchester. He's hot, he's yours, and he's here.

 _Oh, hell yes. I can do this._

You wash your face for real now, brush your teeth quickly, and run your fingers through your hair enough to give it a tousled look. After careful thought, you pull your leggings and your bra off, leaving you in a t-shirt and panties. You bite your lip a little to bring some color into it, and smile at the mirror. You're _definitely_ not a virgin, you know what you're doing, and he's out there, waiting for you.

You come out of the bathroom _much_ more confident than when you went in.

Dean's not in the living room, so you go lightly up the stairs to find him sitting on the bed. _Right where I want him._

You smile and lean in the doorway. "Hey," you say softly.

His head whips up and he meets your eyes. He swallows hard and lets his eyes travel down to your bare legs, then they come back up to look into your eyes again.

"Hey," he says hoarsely.

You saunter to where he's sitting on the bed, putting your legs between his slightly spread knees. You're inches away from him, his face is almost at the same level it was when he came back to you the night before. You leave your hands at your sides, willing to let him make the next move.

The next, _inevitable_ move.

So you think.

Instead, he runs his hands through his hair. "Uh, ready for bed?"

You're thrown a little, but you smirk instead of let it show. "If you are."

He groans and puts his hands on your hips, which sends sparks through your body until he pushes you back a step. You stumble just a little, then stare at him.

"Sweetheart, we can't do this."

You frown. "What?"

He stands and steps away from you, like you're on fire, and groans again and rubs a hand down his face. He gestures between the two of you. "This. Sex. Sleeping together. No go."

You frown, then pain hits you in the heart. "Oh," you say softly. Then you nod. "Um, okay. Sleep it is."

He groans for a third time. "Jesus, no, I didn't mean it like that. I _want_ to, God knows I want to, but we _can't."_

You shake your head. "I don't understand, then. If you… Want to, then why can't we?"

He heaves a sigh. "Y/N, you're…"

You know where this is going, and the heat of lust is replaced with the heat of anger. "God. Fucking. _Dammit!_ Dean, this cannot be about how old I am. Are you kidding me?"

"Y/N, you're so young, you're too young. You don't want this."

You raise your eyebrows and cross your arms. "Ah, good. So I'm suddenly too young to know what I want? Awesome. Good deal." You walk over to the bed and pull the covers back angrily.

"Y/N, I just… I don't mean… I mean, do you have any idea what I was doing when you were learning to _walk?"_

You stare at him for a second, completely dumbfounded. "Are you… Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" You know you're yelling, but you can't help it. He winces, and you ignore it. "I can't believe this. You think I'm too young to _fuck?!_ Jesus, Dean, do you think I'm a _virgin?"_

His face clouds, then clears again. "Y/N, I'm sure you're… Ah, I'm sure you're not. I just-"

"No, I'm tired of this discussion," you snap. "What exactly do I need to do to convince you that I _want_ this, and that I know what I want?" You laugh harshly before he can answer. "And, by the way, you clearly don't have a problem _feeling me up in a hallway!"_

"Y/N, that was… Adrenaline," he finishes him lamely.

Hurt ricochets through you again, and your fire goes out. "All right, Dean," you say softly. "Fine. I'm too young to know what I want, I'm too young to fuck, and apparently, the only way you'll touch me is if you think I've died in the last hour and a half or so. I get it."

He opens his mouth, and you put your hands up in defeat. "No, I get it. Loud and clear. Message received. Really, I mean it."

He looks pained, but you don't care. You carefully pick up one of the pillows, walk to him, and shove him in the chest with it. "But you don't get to sleep in a bed with me if you're not going to fuck me."

He opens his mouth again, but you turn around. "Couch, Winchester. You're sleeping on the couch tonight."

"Not even the guest bedroom?" he asks.

He's clearly trying to lighten the mood, but you're having none of it. "If you want to sleep in a _bedroom,_ you have to be willing to do _bedroom_ activities." You glare at him as you crawl into your bed. "Until then, living room. And shut the fucking door on the way out."

He looks like he wants to say something, but you stare at your knees until you hear the door click. As soon as it does, your face crumples and you bury it in your hands.

 _Why doesn't he want me?_

 **xxxxx**

Dean wants her.

He wants her so bad he can taste it. It makes the blood rush in his ears, his vision goes hazy, and all he can think about is his mouth on her, on any part of her, making her scream his name when she comes. He _wants_ her.

But she's… She's too young. Not just in years, but in her soul. She's too innocent and lovely and fresh for him. He doesn't want to dirty her with his hands, or with his body, or with his life. And if he touches her, he isn't a hundred percent sure he'll be able to leave her here.

So he goes to sleep on the couch, like she asked.

 _Leave in the morning. Send her car back to her._

It's an hour of sleepless minutes in when he hears the bedroom door open.

"Winchester!" she snaps.

"Um… Yeah, sweetheart?" he responds softly.

"Get your ass up here so I can get some sleep."

He smirks a little, crawls off of the couch, and goes up the stairs.

When he gets there, if looks could kill, he would be a very, very dead man. She's staring daggers at him from the doorway, and she backs up so he can get into the room. She goes to the bed, and though he tries not to, his eyes follow her every movement. Cataloging it, keeping it, searing it into his brain so he can pull it out on rough nights and just think about the way her hips sway.

She crawls into bed and lays on one side, staring at the wall. He gets in next to her and turns to look at her back. Before he can reach out to her, she speaks.

"Please don't touch me," she whispers, and the emotion in her voice almost kills him. "Just… If you're not willing to _touch_ me, don't touch me. Okay? No more forehead kisses, no more arm around my shoulder, no more anything."

"Okay, sweetheart," he whispers.

She sighs. "Look, by morning, I'll probably change my mind. Hell, by _midnight,_ I'll probably change my mind. I'm… I'm working hard on being all right with this. I really am, you just… Don't touch me right now, okay?"

This is killing him. Her voice is small, and he knows she thinks that he doesn't want her, he doesn't want to do what she wants to do. But he… He just _can't._

And, if nothing else, Dean Winchester is damn good at denying himself.

So he keeps his hands off of her and just goes to sleep.

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**

 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**

 **Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.**

 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**

 ****What is up with this story demanding my attention? Send help, it's all I can think about.**


	5. Dean, Shut the Fuck Up

Dean wakes up with her head on his shoulder. His arm is curled protectively around her, and her leg is thrown across his. She's warm as hell, soft, and he can tell that she's awake.

"Dean," she says softly, not moving a muscle.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" he rasps.

"My alarm is going to go off in twelve minutes."

He frowns. "Okay."

"When that happens, can we forget everything that went down last night after we finished the movie?"

Pain lances his heart, and he winces. "Sweetheart, I-"

"I don't want to talk about it, I want to pretend it didn't happen. No mention of my failed seduction, of your… Just, no mention of anything. Got it?"

He runs his free hand down his face and tightens his hold on her. "Y/N, I-"

"Please?" she whispers, tensing. "Dean, _please."_ She takes a deep breath. "Look, I… I am working on being all right with this. I'm trying _so_ hard. But I'm gonna need a couple of do-overs."

He winces again and rubs his chest a little, wishing his heart would stop beating so hard. "Uh…"

"Dean," she whispers. "I… I've imagined meeting you a billion times. And I've been realistic about it. I knew there would be compromises. I thought I'd probably have to move, or find a new job. Maybe we could meet in the middle, or we could go somewhere new." She laughs softly, and he looks for bitterness in the sound, but finds only pain. "I didn't expect this. Out of all of the scenarios I imagined, a guy who hunts monsters, doesn't want to be with me, and doesn't want to, you know, _be_ with me, was absolutely never one of them."

Sharp guilt hits Dean, and he can barely speak around it. _God dammit._

"Y/N-"

"You've got four minutes to say whatever it is you want to say."

He takes a deep breath, letting resolve harden his heart. This _has_ to be said, she _has_ to understand. "I'm sorry."

She presses her face into his chest. "I know."

"No, sweetheart, you don't," he says softly. "I'm not… Look, I'm sorry that you got paired up with me. I'm sorry that this happened to you, that _I_ happened to you. But I'm not sorry about not staying, and I'm not sorry about last night. Those are… Look, they're to keep you _safe."_

She laughs again, and there's bitterness now. She puts a hand on his chest and shoves to help her sit up. He grunts a little. "To keep me safe. That is such a load of fucking bullshit."

He frowns and sits up on his elbows to watch her run her hands through her hair and then cover her face with them. "It's not-"

"Dean. We've got three minutes of real, honest-to-God truth time left before we ignore everything that's happened. So do me a favor. Go ahead and lie to Sam, that's fine. You can even lie to yourself, that's fine, too. But don't lie to me, okay? I think I deserve the truth."

She turns back to look at him, and the tears in her eyes make his heart ache again. "This isn't about me being safe. It's about you not wanting to get hurt. It's about you not wanting to risk losing me. So don't pretend this is about my well-being, because it's about yours, and we both know it."

Before he can say anything, the alarm goes off, and she stands. "Time's up," she says briskly. She smiles tightly at him. "Time to forget everything, Winchester."

He sighs. "I didn't agree to that."

She chuckles darkly and goes to the closet. "Well, if I don't get to decide anything else in this… _Whatever_ we have going on, I get to decide this. Either forget about it or shut up about it. I don't care which."

 **xxxxx**

You're halfway down the driveway, dressed for work, before Dean opens the front door.

"Y/N!"

"What?" you shout back, without turning around and without stopping.

"God dammit, where are you going?"

You're at the end of the driveway now. The urge to turn and try to get the anger and upset out of his voice is strong, but you ignore it and keep walking. "To work."

There's a pause, and his heavy footsteps are catching up quickly. You have to resist another urge to speed up. _I am not going to run away from him._ "Dean, go back to the house. I get off at five."

"God dammit, Y/N, it's five o'clock in the morning. It's still _dark."_

He's almost right next to you, and you keep your pace resolutely. "So?"

He grabs your arm and swings you around to face him. "Sweetheart, it's dangerous to-"

You yank your arm away from him. "Fuck you, Dean! I was walking this path for _years_ before you showed up, okay? I've worked with Trent for five _years,_ and I have walked this path for _five fucking years_ without you. So what is it? What is your problem?"

He's glaring at you, which just makes you even more mad. "I can drive you, God dammit! You don't have to-"

"Yes, I do, Dean," you snap, turning back around. "I don't particularly _want_ to be in a car with you. So, yes, I do have to walk."

He grabs you and spins you back again to look at him. "I don't care what you want!"

You yank away from him again with a snort. "Yeah, you've made that _extremely_ clear, that you don't care what I want."

He pales a little, and you're conflicted. Part of you is fiercely glad, but the rest of you is mournful that you're the reason for his pain. "Yeah," you say softly. "See why this isn't a great idea? Just give me a few hours, okay? Let me just… Let me just walk to work. I'll be back at five."

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at the ground. "You work too much," he mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Well, there's nothing else for me to do, I may as well go to work."

He sighs, then meets your eyes again hesitantly. "Will you at least please drive?"

"Dean, you should have a way to get back and forth. No, I'm fine." When he keeps staring at you, you groan. "Will you feel better if Trent comes to pick me up?"

He scowls. "I'd feel better if Trent stayed-"

"Dean," you say sharply, holding your hand up. "You're going to want to shut up now."

You pull your cell phone out to call your boss for a ride.

 **xxxxx**

Dean watches her drive away with that fuckwit Trent, anger burning beneath his skin, and knowing he has no damn right to be angry. She's assured him that Trent is happily married, and that they're just friends.

And he _knows_ he has no right to feel this way. If he can't _(won't, her voice reminds him, won't)_ be with her, he shouldn't be in her life at all. He shouldn't come back here. He knows that. He _knows_ that.

Sam's phone call to tell him that the hunt is over couldn't come at a better time.

 **xxxxx**

You're in Trent's office, working on a report with him.

You've kicked your shoes off and they're tucked beneath you as you sit in one of the plush office chairs. There's paper _everywhere,_ and you have a highlighter tucked behind your ear, one in your lap, and one in your hand.

"Okay, April of last year? Where the hell is April of last year?" you ask, looking around you.

Trent groans and stands to help. "This fucking report. You know, this is your fault for firing Jerry."

You chuckle. "Excuse me, _you_ fired Jerry."

"Only because you made me," he mutters, looking around the floor.

You smile fondly at your boss. Trent is good people. Since you were promoted to his direct assistant, your workload has tripled, but you like it. It keeps you busy, keeps your mind away from all the things you don't want to think about.

And Trent, as good a man as he is, is kind of a scatterbrain. He forgets easily, and while he retains all information, he doesn't always retain it in the right order. Luckily, you can take care of all of that. You don't mind running things from the background, you don't want the responsibility of being boss, but you like the work you do, so you're cool with it.

He was also extremely sympathetic when you got to work this morning. You didn't tell him _everything,_ obviously, but you told him enough. He knows that Dean has a dangerous job (you gave the impression that he was in some sort of law enforcement), and that he's using that as an excuse to stay away. Trent gave you a hug, said all the right things, and all around made you feel a teensy bit better.

"Found it!" he says happily, grinning at you from across the room.

You grin. "You're a hero, Trent. Gimme that, I'll review, you type?"

"Done."

You guys work in silence for a while, and the front door opening barely registers in your perception. _Ugh, we were a mess in April. What the fuck was I doing in April?_

"Y/N?"

Dean's deep voice makes you jump. You twist in the chair and see him step into the doorway, taking in the scattered mess around you quickly.

"Dean? What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "Uh, nothing, just, uh, came to take you to lunch."

You blink, then smile a little. "Oh. Okay."

You turn to Trent, who's straight up glaring at Dean. "Are you all right with that, Y/N?"

You stand quickly, putting the papers in your hands on the seat. Then you turn and give Trent a gentle smile. "Yeah, Trent, it's fine."

He turns his eyes to you. "Are you sure?"

"She said it's fine," Dean snaps.

You groan and roll your eyes. "Put them away, gentlemen." You turn to your boss. "Yes, I'm fine with it. He's not going to hurt me over cheeseburgers." You turn to Dean. "And _you._ Back off, caveman, I'm coming. Go wait in the front."

"I think I'm good where I am," he says, not taking his eyes off of Trent.

Which make you see red. "Dean," you snap, grabbing your shoes and navigating around the paper standing between you and your _idiot_ soulmate. "Let's go." Before you shove him out, you turn again and smile at Trent. "I'll be all right." You mouth, "thank you," silently, and he nods sharply, still eyeing Dean.

You turn back and shove at Dean's chest. _"Go."_

He grumbles and walks back into the front office. You slip your shoes on and grab your purse, irritated beyond belief. You grab his sleeve and drag him outside. Once the door shuts behind you, you turn and glare at him. "What the _fuck_ was that, Dean?"

He groans and shoves his hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"Trent and I are friends, Dean, and he's my _boss._ So I'd like to know what the _fuck_ that was?!"

He meets your eyes, and the anger in his green gaze infuriates you. "Looked pretty _cozy_ for friends."

Your mouth actually drops open in shock. "You're… You're _jealous?"_ You bark out a laugh that hurts your throat, which is okay because it matches the pain in your chest. "You… You… You _so_ don't get to be jealous of _anyone!"_

He rubs his hand down his face. "I know, I know."

"You know," you snarl softly, "for someone who won't _fuck_ me because he thinks I'm too _young,_ I'm not the person acting like a goddamn thirteen-year-old girl!" _Forget not mentioning last night, he deserves it._

He groans. "I know, I know, fuck, I'm sorry. This was a bad idea-"

 _Shit._ "No, no, it's not, I'm sorry." You take a deep breath and rub your hand through your hair. "I'm sorry, you came to do a nice thing for me, and I'm being a bitch." You take another deep, deep breath. "I'm sorry, we can go, let's go to lunch."

He stares at you for a long time, and you just stare back.

You're exhausted, you feel raw and exposed and tired. This man, this man who can see everything you are, who you've bared your soul to, who you are ready now to admit that you're (insanely, stupidly, ridiculously) falling in love with, and who still won't stay with you. The man in front of you, the most beautiful person you've ever seen in real life, and he won't touch you like you crave to be touched because you're "too young for him."

You decide again that you have to work on being okay with what he wants. Bitching at him every time he comes back to you isn't going to help, even if you _are_ right, and you both know it. So whatever he wants to give you, even if it's coming around just to be patched up and leave again, you'll take it. Even if it's just sitting next to him on the couch when he visits, you'll take it.

Which makes you feel pathetic, and weak, and desperate. It makes you think you're not the strong woman you always thought you were, that you're just as bad as the trashy romance novel heroines you're so fond of mocking. But you're too tired to fight it. Whatever you are, be it weak or strong, you're ready to accept it, because you're too tired. It's too much.

So you stare back at him until he walks to the car and opens the door for you.

 **xxxxx**

Dean watches her as they eat. She smiles and talks easily about her job, but there are shadows in her eyes, and she's still quiet and withdrawn. He knows it's his fault, so he shoulders the guilt, because it's a sensation he's familiar with.

"Dean, it's okay," she says softly, smiling.

He blinks. "What's okay?"

"You're leaving today, right? Sam's coming to pick you up?"

He winces. "Uh… Yeah, yeah, I am."

She sighs. "Okay, it's all right. Will you guys stay for dinner?"

More guilt. "We, uh, actually, found a case-"

"When are you leaving?" she interrupts.

"Right after this. I'll, uh, leave your car here for you."

She takes a deep breath, and the tears in her eyes are damn near fatal for him, but he makes himself keep her gaze, because _he_ deserves this pain, she doesn't. "Okay," she says softly. "Do you need anything from me?"

He shakes his head, then watches as she digs through her purse for a moment before pulling out a house key. "Here, you guys should have one of these," she says gently. "So you can come and go if I'm… If I'm not there."

He fucking _hates_ this. The agony in every line of her body, and in those insanely pretty eyes. The sweet smile she's giving him, like she's trying to assure him that it's okay that he's killing her. The offer of her house key, the offer of giving them a place to come to in this part of the country, even if she's not there.

"God, Y/N, I'm _so fucking sorry,"_ he whispers, fighting the tears in his eyes, too.

"I know, Dean."

 **xxxxx**

Dean hugs you fiercely outside of the restaurant, and you bury your face in his neck and hug him back, hungry for any contact with him at all before he leaves. "Be careful, okay?" you whisper.

"Yeah, sweetheart, okay," he says roughly.

Then he hands you your car keys, presses a kiss to your forehead, and walks away. _Again._

And, though you don't know it as you watch him walk down the street, it's going to be six weeks, four days, and nine hours before you see Dean again.

 **xxxxx**

You go back to work, still trying to pull yourself together.

Trent is waiting for you. When you come through the door, he just has to take one look at you before he's up out of his chair and pulling you into a hug. You go willingly, because comfort is needed, and because it's _Trent,_ who genuinely only wants to protect you.

"Go home, Y/N. I'll clean up, we can finish tomorrow."

You sniffle and step away. "No, I'm fine, I can stay."

He smiles. "I know you _can_ stay. You _can_ do anything. I just think you _should_ go home, because that fucker did something shitty to you again, and you deserve some you time. So go, and that's an order."

 **xxxxx**

You take Trent's offer up.

You're sitting at home in your pajamas, with a huge cup of coffee in your hands and a movie playing on the TV. There's a piece of paper on the sofa next to you, with several scrawled cell phone numbers written on it. He left you his number. _Jackass._

You want to be watching the movie, and you _were_ watching, but Trent's words are rattling around in your head.

 _You_ can _do anything._

"I mean… He's right," you say to the empty room. "He's… He's goddamn right, I _can_ do anything."

Just because Dean doesn't _want_ you to hunt, doesn't mean you _can't_ hunt.

You smile to yourself and let your attention drift back to the film, a plan firmly in place.

 **xxxxx**

So, getting into hunting isn't easy, but it's not impossible.

You research for days, from the moment you get home from work to the moment your head hits the pillow. You gather all the knowledge you can possibly muster. Iron, salt, devil's traps, holy water, the works. Because you are a natural organizer, you take notes. They're neat, and highlighted, and if you could, you would laminate them. But the people at the local copy shop would look at you funny, so you ignore your impulse and settle for color-coding everything.

You sign up for some basic self-defense classes, and you learn things about yourself you wouldn't have otherwise. You learn that you're fast, and while you're not strong (typing up reports does not a bodybuilder make), you can make your advantages work for you. You do the moves at home, and you complete the classes with a sense of fierce accomplishment. _Take that, forces of darkness._

You reread your notes over and over and over again. You make flash cards, quiz yourself, repeat exorcisms under your breath while you shower or cook or while you're getting the oil in your car changed. You memorize like a madwoman.

 _Take that, Winchester._

 **xxxxx**

Six weeks, four days, and eight and a half hours after you see Dean walking down the sidewalk, he calls you.

You're studying, so you answer distractedly. "Hello?"

"Hey, sweetheart, how's it goin'?"

Your head snaps up, and you feel your lips pull upward into a smile. "Hey, you. What's up?"

"Not much, we're just, uh, we're in town. Well, we're close to town, I mean, only a couple of hours from town, the town you're in, and, uh, you know, Sam's been dying to see you, and…" He heaves a sigh. "And I sound like an asshole."

Your heart warms at the nervous energy in his words. "No, you don't, you sound fine. Do you guys want to come over for dinner?"

The relief is palpable. "Yeah, that sounds great."

"Dean," you hear Sam say severely, "A couple of hours? Really?"

"Oh, where are you guys?" you ask, certain he's farther away than he told you.

"Um… Half an hour out?"

Your heart soars. "Oh! Okay! Yeah, come on over, I'm sure I can whip something up."

"All right, well, we'll, uh, be there. In about half an hour."

"Okay," you say softly, "See you then."

You hang up and go back to reading your notes about vengeful ghosts. It takes a few minutes before you realize what you're doing.

 _Shit!_

You do _not_ need Dean knowing that you're getting into hunting. Unfortunately, all of the notes you've created are scattered around the house.

You spend the next twenty minutes sprinting around and gathering everything you have. Notes, flash cards, the whole shebang is gathered up and shoved into a shoebox that you put in the back of one of your closets.

A little winded, you flop down on the couch to take a breath. Then, "Shit! Dinner!"

You jump to your feet and run into the kitchen. You fling cabinets open, taking fast inventory of what you have. _Spaghetti? No, you made him spaghetti last time he was here, he'll think that's all you can make. Lasagna? It'll take too long, no telling how long they'll stay. Shit! Shit! Shit! Think of something! Think of anything, you silly broad!_

You groan and take a deep breath. _Okay, you have got to chill out._ You look at your options, and decide that simpler is better. If he complains, you'll just brain him with the frying pan and wash your hands of the whole thing.

You start a stir fry in a skillet and rice in a big pot. When you have a second, you sprint to the bathroom and make sure you don't look like _complete_ shit. When your appearance is as good as it's going to get, you go back into the kitchen and cook for the few minutes it takes them to get to you.

The Impala pulling into your driveway and parking next to your little sedan makes everything in you light up with happiness, and you almost dance to the door before you remember that you are a goddamn grown woman.

That reminder doesn't stop you from flinging the door open and grinning wide when you see him in the driveway. Your eyes absorb every detail fast. He looks tired, but good. His hair's a little longer, and he's got some scruff (yum), but he looks good.

He looks even better when he turns to see you waiting for him. He jogs up the steps, grinning, and somehow it's not awkward at all when he sweeps you into his arms.

Dean can fucking _hug._ His arms are tight around you, his face buried in your neck. He's taking deep breaths, absorbing you, and you're doing the same, nuzzling his warm skin a little.

"I'm glad you're here," you whisper.

"Me, too, sweetheart."

He sets you down and pulls back a little to look at your face. When he does, you see Sam coming up the steps behind him. You grin. "Hi, Sam."

"Hey, Y/N."

You disconnect from Dean and hug Sam, going up on your tiptoes. "Glad you're okay," you say softly.

He chuckles. "You and me both."

He unravels from you and you turn to smile at both of them. "All right, gentlemen, let's eat."

 **xxxxx**

The three of you eat and swap stories, although they have more stories than you do. Dean helps with dishes, and you savor the warmth of him next to you.

When the dishes are done, you hand him a beer, start to wipe down the counter, and try hard to stem the growing heat in your middle. Because he way he's leaning against the counter somehow emphasizes his slim hips, his strong torso, his _ridiculous_ biceps.

So you blurt out the first thing you can think of, so you don't fucking jump his bones right here and now.

"So, uh, colors."

He blinks, then swallows and looks at you. "What?"

Your warm face makes you know you're blushing, so you look back down at the counter and wish briefly that a huge tear in time and space would open up and take you away. When that doesn't happen, you decide to elaborate, so he doesn't think you're a _complete_ idiot.

"Um, colors. Did any of them surprise you? When you, uh, started seeing them?"

He's quiet, so you chance a peek back to make sure that he hasn't left because you _are,_ in fact, a complete idiot. He's still there, and he looks like he's thinking. You take a breath of relief and turn to face him completely, leaning back on the counter.

"Baby," he says softly, "Baby surprised me."

You tilt your head. "Baby's your car?"

He nods. "Yeah, it's black. I, uh, I guess I didn't realize she wouldn't change after I met you."

His eyes meet yours, and your heartbeat speeds up, and you try to control it as your eyes drop down to your bare feet. _He doesn't want you, he doesn't want you, he doesn't want you._

He clears his throat. "What about you?"

You shrug, but keep your gaze down. "There's a girl I work with, she's a redhead. I didn't… I don't know, I guess I didn't realize how _bright_ her hair is."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I,uh, I guess I realized that, too."

There's a silence, so you try simultaneously to think of something else to say and try to tamp down your attraction to him. _If he wasn't so damn good-looking, this wouldn't be a problem. Oh, why couldn't my distant, not-wanting-to-stay-with-me soulmate look like a horse or something?_

Suddenly, his socked feet enter your vision, right in front of your own. You watch, like it's in slow motion, as his hand comes up to your face, and he gently uses a finger under your chin to raise your face to look at him. "Hey," he says softly. "Lost you there for a second."

You smile tremulously. "I'm back." You inhale sharply. "Um, can you take a step back, Dean?"

He blinks, but doesn't move. "Why?"

You decide on honesty. "Because I'm fighting a wild, passionate attraction to you, and your proximity is making it very difficult."

 **xxxxx**

"Because I'm fighting a wild, passionate attraction to you, and your proximity is making it very difficult."

Dean's head swims, and he struggles to keep his composure. He looks at her wide eyes, her lips slightly parted, her flushed cheeks, and he feels himself start to get hard as he drinks her in.

 _Stop it, God dammit,_ he says to himself nastily. _Get away from her._

He fights it hard, and watches in horror as his hand slowly moves to cup her face, his thumb running along her soft cheek. "Step back," he repeats softly.

She nods slowly, her eyes still wide. "Yeah, or I'll do something stupid."

He almost groans out loud when his heart beats harder, and he feels all of his focus narrow down to her mouth. He gets dizzy when her pink tongue peeks to wet her lip. _Oh, God, I'm so fucking fucked._

"Stupid?" he asks.

 **xxxxx**

"Stupid?" he asks.

 _Don't. Push him away. This is just going to make it harder on you. Don't touch him. Push him away, get out of here. Move to Connecticut, change your name, move, you stupid, stupid woman!_

"Stupid like what?" he husks.

 _Oh, well, you know. Since he asked._

"Like this."

You fist your hands in his shirt and pull him close, in an echo of the first time you kissed him, and press your lips hard against his.

There's a moment of silence and stillness, then his hands are on your hips and he's lifting you onto the counter. He hooks his hands beneath your knees and pulls you tight against him, so your legs are open and you're pressed against the hard length of him beneath the denim of his jeans.

You gasp, and he sweeps his tongue into your mouth. You don't hesitate to push your hands beneath his shirt and run them up his warm stomach. He shudders beneath your touch, and you smile against his lips.

You sense the hesitation in him, so you wrap your legs around his waist and keep him close. _Not now, please don't pull away now, it will kill me._

He groans into your mouth and wraps his big hands around your hips and presses into you. His hips are shallowly thrusting into yours, driving you _crazy_ with the pressure he's putting on your core. You're whimpering, and you pull your arms out from under his shirt to wrap them around his neck.

Heat is spearing through you, and your hips are rolling against his. He's doing this lovely little grunting thing, and one of his hands moves back to press against the small of your back. His fingers slip just under the hem of your shirt, making you shiver.

"Hey, Y/N, do you- Oh, fuck, ah, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Sam's retreating voice is like a bucket of cold water, and you realize again what you're doing. Dean seems to realize the same, and he pulls away from you, then presses his forehead to yours. Your breathe mixes with his as you both calm down a little.

He meets your eyes, and the sorrow in his green gaze upsets you enough to sweep away the last vestiges of heat.

"Y/N, I'm-"

"Sorry, yeah, I got it."

 **xxxxx**

After an extremely awkward movie, you go to bed by yourself. You ache for him, but you say nothing. Sam caught you in the hallway and apologized about a thousand times before you got to slip away, and now you're here. In bed. Alone. _Again._

You shouldn't have kissed him, you know you shouldn't have. You were right, it's just making this harder. Everything in you wants to be next to him, but you fucked up, so now you're just here by yourself, pining after him like the teenager he apparently sees you as.

When the door clicks open, you know it's him, so you don't move. Something deep inside you, something you don't want to think about, relaxes when he slips beneath the covers and presses his chest against your back.

Neither of you says anything. Nothing needs to be said anymore.

 **xxxxx**

You wake up by yourself. There's not even a note on the pillow next to you. Luckily, it's the weekend, so you can stay in bed and cry as long as you want to.

 **xxxxx**

You get out of bed several hours after you wake, drained and upset. You make coffee woodenly, not hungry, but not willing to stay in bed, either.

You pull the local paper from the doorstep and sit at the table with it and a cup of coffee. You read absently, slowly putting yourself back together, when you read something that catches your eye.

You spend the rest of the day doing research, sinking yourself into work he doesn't want you to do, just to spite him.

 _Jackass._

 **xxxxx**

The next few months pass fairly uneventfully, except for two things.

The first thing, Dean is coming around more and more often. Every couple of weeks you get a call, and it sends both thrills and dread through your system. But you always tell him to come. And he does.

Every time, as soon as he sees you, he sweeps you into his arms, crushing you to him, breathing you in. You go willingly every time, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close, soaking in his nearness and his scent. _He smells so good._

You fix he and Sam food every time, you tell each other what's happened since you last saw one another, and you laugh with each other. Dean usually holds your hand beneath the table, which make your stomach flutter.

But he doesn't kiss you again. He's never alone with you again unless you're sleeping next to one another.

He's always gone by morning. He never leaves a note, and it always breaks your heart.

However, you're quite distracted by the _second_ thing that happens during those few months.

You're hunting.

 **xxxxx**

It's dangerous, sure, but not quite as dangerous as the Winchesters make it out to be. If you do thorough research and use common sense, it's not that bad. You take it slow, just vengeful spirits and one ghoul.

You talk to victims, you talk your way into morgues and police offices. You schmooze and flatter people, you bribe people, and you print yourself a handy-dandy fake FBI badge after sneaking into Dean's bag and taking a picture of his. Which feels like justice.

You do _tons_ of research before you salt and burn bones, before you make any move at all. You mess up a couple of times, but you usually get it right the first time. You're _good_ at this. You have good instincts, you're fast, and you stay the hell out of danger's path. You get hurt a couple of times, but nothing you can't patch up at home. And you're good at keeping people safe. There seems to be something about you that makes them believe you when you tell them there's something wrong and to _move._

Mostly, you're good at it.

 **xxxxx**

The first time someone dies because of your actions, you drink yourself stupid and cry yourself to sleep. It sinks in then, why Dean drinks too much and why Sam's smile doesn't always light up the room like it should. This. This overwhelming, terrifying guilt. How does he _live_ like this?

You worked a case, and you were _certain_ of it. The sister who was killed by the father, you were _sure_ it was her. But you burned the bones, and you barely heard the screams in time to get the mom and baby out.

The father died.

Even if he was a waste, an abusive, alcoholic, murdering waste, he was still a _person._ A person who died because of _your_ mistake. A person who died because _you_ didn't realize that the person who died was actually _people._ The girl had a twin sister. He killed them both.

And you killed him.

It's a Sunday, so you mope around the house for the day, desolate. When your phone rings, you consider closely before you answer.

"Hello?"

"Is… Is this Y/N?"

You frown. "Yeah. Who is this?"

"Kayla."

You sit up a little. Kayla's the mother from the case you fucked up. "Kayla, is everything okay? Oh, God, is it the spirit? I'll come right-"

"No, no, no. It's nothing like that. I… I just… Called to thank you."

You blink. _"Thank_ me?" You swallow hard. "You… You want to _thank_ me? Kayla, David… Um, David died."

"I know," she whispers. "And…" she laughs bitterly. "God knows this is stupid, but I'm really upset about it. He was a horrible human being, and an abusive motherfucker but…" She sniffles, and you feel yourself tearing up in sympathy. "I'm heartbroken," she whispers.

Tears fall down your cheek. "I'm so sorry, Kayla. I should have-"

"No!" she almost shouts, making you jump. "No, Y/N, I didn't call for this. I called to say thank you for saving my daughter's life."

You blink. You've been at this for a few months, and not once has someone thanked you. "Oh."

"You saved my life. You're letting me give my daughter a good life. _Thank_ you, Y/N. I can't say it enough."

You're barely able to speak. "Thank you, Kayla. If… If you need anything, you keep this number, okay?"

 **xxxxx**

Kayla's call gives you the oomph you need to keep going. So you keep hunting, and it's all fine. You manage to keep your hunts between Sam and Dean's visits, and balance them with work nicely. Life is going swell.

Until, of course, it isn't.

 **xxxxx**

You're in an abandoned warehouse (why do monsters have some sort of penchant for abandoned warehouses? Who do you talk to about this bullshit?), creeping around a huge staircase, trying to find this damn werewolf.

This feels like your first big girl hunt, and you're determined to get it right. You have silver bullets, a silver knife, and you're on red-alert for any shiftiness.

A little scrape to your right. _There._ You turn toward it, gun at the ready, adrenaline coursing through you, making everything sharper, making life slow down so you can see it clearly.

So you have a front row fucking seat to the fact that the scrape was a decoy. A rock tossed across the room. _Fuck._ You whirl to see the creature right behind you. You watch it's hand sink into your stomach, and suddenly, the world catches up with you.

You have the presence to raise the gun and shoot the damn thing in the heart before you start screaming. You press a hand to the gaping hole in your stomach. _Too much blood, too much, oh God, too much, I don't want to die in an abandoned warehouse._

You fall to your knees as you pull your phone out. Your head is swimming and you're hoping that you're pressing the right buttons.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

 **xxxxx**

Dean's in the car, on the way to the motel from a case, when his phone rings. It's a number he doesn't recognize. "Hello?"

"Hi, my name is Elsa, I'm with Sentinel General Hospital. May I speak with a… Mr. Dean Winchester?"

"You got him. What is this about?"

There's a moment of silence. "Mr. Winchester, I'm very sorry. But you're listed as Y/N Y/L/N's emergency contact."

Everything in Dean goes cold and still, and his foot presses down on the accelerator.

"There's been an accident…"

 **xxxxx**

You're in darkness. It's warm, comforting darkness, so you're not scared. It makes you feel like you feel when Dean is in bed with you, and you're wrapped up in his embrace, breathing in his musk.

You could stay here forever, and you sense that you can, you just have to choose.

 _Hmm…_

 **xxxxx**

 _God, she looks… Dead._

"Fuck," Sam mutters next to him.

She's there in a hospital bed, covered in a huge white blanket. She looks tiny and pale and _dead._ There's tubes and monitors hooked up to her, and her breathing is shallow.

Dean approaches the bed slowly, dragging one of the chairs with him. He gathers her hand in his as he sits, then presses his lips to her knuckles. "What the fuck happened, sweetheart?" he asks softly. He decides then and there that he'll stay here with her until she's well. Fuck the rest of the world.

He threads his fingers through hers, ready to forget everything else going on to stay with her, then pauses. He sniffs again, frowning, then gently splays her hand to look at her finger.

There's a callous there. And she smells like gunpowder.

He stands, glaring down at her.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam asks behind him.

Dean pulls the blankets down to her knees, then lifts the hospital gown just enough to to look at her legs.

Dean has _memorized_ her pretty legs. The way her lovely calves curve up to her knees, the gentle swell of her thighs. He has brought the image of her standing in the doorway in her t-shirt to his mind so many times, he knows her legs like the back of his fucking hand.

There it is. A scar. On her left thigh, just above her knee. It's faint, and there are little lines indicating neat stitches. There's a million ways she could have gotten it. A million innocent, perfectly reasonable ways.

But there's only _one_ way she did get it.

"She's been hunting, Sam," Dean says roughly.

 **xxxxx**

 _Hmm…_

The warmth is seductive and happy. You want to stay there. If you go back, you're just going back to a world full of monsters you can barely fight and a soulmate who doesn't want to be with you.

 _Hmm…_

 **xxxxx**

" _What?"_ Sam exclaims. "Why would you think that? Surely she isn't-"

"Gunpowder on her hands, callous on her trigger finger, scar on her legs," he snaps, anger starting to roll through him.

Sam can read him like a book. "Dean, you can't get mad at her. For God's sake, she might be dying!"

"Well, then what the _fuck_ was she doing out there without me?!" Dean shouts, resisting the urge to throw something.

"Dean, shut the fuck up, you told her to stay here," Sam snaps. "And you're gonna get us kicked out." Sam sighs. "Look, I'll go… I'll go to the house, see if she's hidden anything. Don't jump to any conclusions."

The words "the house" affect something in Dean, like he belongs there. Like he belongs there with her and Sam. He ignores that to nod sharply.

Sam claps him on the shoulder, takes the keys, and goes to confirm what Dean already knows.

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to her lips, then to her forehead, then brings his mouth against her ear.

"You are in _so_ much trouble, sweetheart."

 **xxxxx**

 _I think I'll stay here. It's better here, safer._

You're about to make your decision for sure when his deep, beautiful, whiskey voice floats through your consciousness.

"You are in _so_ much trouble, sweetheart."

And, despite his words, despite how mad he's going to be, the pull of Dean is too much.

So you start to swim through the darkness back to him, because you'll always go back to Dean.

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**

 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**

 **Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.**

 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**

 ****Long chapter, sorry.**


	6. Are You Serious?

**Longest chapter ever, guys. Sorry, my bad.**

 **xxxxx**

When Trent McNamara gets the call that she's in the hospital, he drops everything, barely remembers to lock up the office, and speeds the whole way there.

He _loves_ her. He's not in love with her, of course. Denise is his soulmate, the woman who gently poured color into his world and soul-deep devotion into his heart. Denise is perfect, and he has never adored someone the way he adores her.

But Y/N is pretty damn amazing. The first time he met her, if he's being honest with himself, he was looking into her eyes, hoping to see anything but grey. When they remained stubbornly the way they were, he resolved that he would become her friend. And she would become one of his _best_ friends.

She's smart, smarter than him by a mile. He's comfortable in the fact that the only reason he keeps his job is because she wants nothing to do with it. That's fine, he's good at the parts she's not good at. They run the firm together, they're a good team.

She's also funny, and cunning, and loving. She's a sweet woman, and he loves her.

And he has a sinking suspicion that whatever she's in the hospital for, it's because of Dean fucking Winchester.

He skids into a parking space, absent-mindedly admiring the Impala parked next to his Civic. Then he lets everything leave his mind as he runs into the hospital

He calms down enough to let a nurse tell him where Y/N is, but he still jogs to her room. The door is slightly ajar, and he goes in without hesitation.

For a moment, he's absolutely certain that he's too late. _She's dead._

But her chest moves in breath, and he breathes his own sigh of relief. _Not dead. Just real close._

There's a chair already scooted next to the bed, and he takes it and her hand simultaneously. "What did he do?" he asks hoarsely. He knows Dean wouldn't hurt her, it doesn't take a genius to see how the man feels about her. But Trent knows what this is about.

Y/N, who is one of his favorite people on the planet, also "dabbles in being an idiot," as she would put it.

"Trent?"

Trent turns to see Dean standing in the doorway, a frown starting to form on his face. There's a cup of coffee in his hand, and Trent begrudgingly admits to himself that Dean looks tired, like he's been up all night with her.

Then he just gets mad.

He stands and approaches the door, then grabs Dean by the lapels of his jacket and shoves him out into the hallway. He delicately shuts the door behind him, then whirls to face Dean. He points. _"You._ She's in here because of you. What the fuck did you do?"

Dean frowns and tosses the cup into a nearby trash can, never taking his eyes off of Trent. "What the hell are you talking about? She was in a car-"

Trent suppresses the urge to punch the other man. "A car accident? Do you think I'm stupid? She was hunting. Because of _you._ Where the hell were _you?"_

Dean blanches. "What the hell do you know about hunting?"

Trent ignores the question, because what he does and does not know about the supernatural world that lies just beneath the one most people see isn't relevant. "This is because you weren't with her. You just left her here, and if you knew anything about her at all, you'd know that she would _never_ just lie there and take that." He runs his hands through his hair. "Of course, you _wouldn't_ know anything about her, because you're not _around."_ He points at the other man. "This is your fucking fault."

Dean's face has been getting harder and harder, until now it looks like it could be carved from stone. "Fuck you," he says softly, danger lacing the tone and making Trent's hackles rise. Something deep inside him, something leftover from when men were clubbing women over the head and dragging them back to caves, wants to punch Dean in that stupid face again.

"This is for her own good," Dean says.

And, just like he knows she would want him to, Trent gives into that ancient instinct, and punches Dean fucking Winchester right in the goddamn face.

 **xxxxx**

 _There is something about a man who will punch you in the face that really just makes you like him,_ Dean reflects as he ices his chin and sits in the cafeteria with Trent and Sam.

"It was my first apartment, and it was a vengeful spirit. Almost pissed my pants, to be honest, but a hunter named Irv saved my ass," Trent says, staring down into his cup of coffee. "Told me enough to know I couldn't cut it as a hunter, then went on his way. He visited from time to time, just for a place to crash, and so Denise could patch him up."

Sam nods. "You made the right call, staying away from this life."

Trent chuckles. "I'm well aware." He sobers and meets Dean's eyes. "But Y/N is never going to give up. She's just gonna tell you she'll stop and keep doing it while you're gone."

Dean sighs and puts the ice back down on the table. How can he make her understand? That this life, it's not good enough for her. She's a good woman, who doesn't deserve the shitstorm that being with him would bring her into.

"I'll make her understand," Dean says softly.

Trent snorts. "Yeah, _okay."_

 **xxxxx**

The darkness is much deeper than you thought it was, but you keep swimming up toward him. Because Dean's at the finish line, and that's worth the work.

 **xxxxx**

It's been a few days, and Dean's starting to get terrified. She hasn't woken up, she's barely moved, and the fear is making his stomach crawl.

He hasn't called Cass, because he hasn't really _told_ Cass about Y/N. He doesn't want the angel to know about her, because he doesn't want _anyone_ to know about her. If people start knowing about her, there's a chance, however slim, that she'll get sucked into all of it. Heaven and hell and everything in between, he wants her far away from it, safe in her corner of the world.

But he doesn't know if he has that option anymore.

"You know he'll protect her," Sam says gently.

Dean nods, not taking his eyes off of her, not putting her hand down. "I know."

"Dean, Cass wouldn't put her in danger, he'd _never_ put your soulmate in jeopardy."

"I know."

Sam groans and runs a hand through his hair. He's sitting in the other chair, opposite Dean on the other side of her bed. Trent went home a couple of hours ago, but he's been here every day, and he'll come back in the morning.

"Then why aren't we calling him?"

Dean sighs and rests his forehead against her small fingers. "I don't know," he says softly, almost as a whisper. "It just… Makes me nervous. Telling people about her."

"Dean," Sam says gently. "Dean, we need to get her out of here. And she might not…"

Sam doesn't finish his sentence, but Dean knows what he means. She could die here. She could die in this fucking hospital bed, because he's too scared to show her to anyone.

 _She would resent that,_ he thinks absently about the thought. _She's not an object, she's a woman._

He groans and presses his forehead to her fingers a little, wishing she was awake so she could make this decision for herself.

When she doesn't miraculously wake up, Dean sighs and raises his head to look at his brother. "All right, I'll call him."

 **xxxxx**

"And you've known about her for over a year," Castiel says slowly, frowning.

Dean nods, having trouble meeting his friend's eyes. "Yeah."

"And you left her here."

"Yeah."

"For her… Safety."

Dean groans. "Don't start in on that, Cass. Clearly it didn't work."

Castiel tilts his head in that way that drives Dean crazy, that makes him feel like the angel is examining him like a curious kid examines a bug. "And it never occurred to you that you were ruining her life? Or did it not concern you?"

Dean closes his eyes and fights the urge to punch his friend. "Shut up, Cass. She was fine."

"She obviously was not," Castiel retorts. "And I was not referring to her physical well-being, although you have put that at risk, as well."

Sam frowns. "What do you mean?" Dean is grateful for the irritated tone in Sam's voice. At least _someone_ is on his side.

Castiel ignores the question and walks over to the side of her bed, considering her carefully. He reaches up and gently smooths a lock of her hair away from her face. "I never considered that you could be a cruel man, Dean. I am surprised."

Now Dean's pissed, and punching Castiel seems more and more worth it every second. "Excuse me?"

"What are you talking about, Cass?" Sam asks slowly.

Castiel stares between the two of them. "What do you think happens when a human meets their mate, and then their mate leaves them?"

Dean frowns. "What?"

Castiel turns back to her, considering her, weighing her. "Dean, someone who meets their soulmate, their intended, the perfect complement to everything they are, and that person does not deem them important enough to stay with them… Can you imagine?"

And for the first time, Dean can.

Despite Sam's words, and her own words, it took the angel saying it for it to sink in.

He keeps _leaving_ her. No matter what he says, no matter how often he insists that it's for her safety, it's because he doesn't want to drag her down with him, because he can't stand the thought of her being hurt… He's _leaving_ her. Cass's words have brought home hard how terrible what he's been doing is. How truly awful he's been to her, the one person ever actually created for him, who he should be _protecting,_ not _abandoning._

"Oh," he says softly, one hand coming up to wipe his mouth hard. "Oh. _Shit."_

Castiel nods, but does not let his gaze wander from her. "You see now. She is an exceptionally strong woman to still be physically and mentally sound. Especially since she's hunting." He sighs. "My powers are not at their fullest, and she was gravely injured, but I can do most of it. She will just need rest."

He places a palm on her forehead, and after a few moments, her eyes flutter open.

"Dean?"

 **xxxxx**

A warm, firm hand takes yours in the darkness. You know instinctively that it's not Dean's, but you grasp it anyway.

"It will be all right, Y/N," the gravelly voice says gently in your ear, "Come with me."

 **xxxxx**

You let your eyes open slowly. "Dean?"

There's a scuffle to your right, then your hand is taken in both of his, and you feel better. "Hey, sweetheart," he says roughly, "How are you feeling?"

You frown and take stock of yourself. "Um, I'm all right. I'm really tired. And my stomach hurts a little."

"You are almost fully healed," a familiar, deep voice says to your left. "But you need rest."

Despite wanting to look to your right, to see Dean, your curiosity overcomes you and you look left to see a handsome blue-eyed man in a trench coat. "You saved me," you say softly, smiling a little.

He nods. "Yes. I healed your wounds."

You frown. "What?"

"Y/N." Dean's voice has you turning to look at him, which expends way too much energy. "This is Castiel. He's, uh, he's an angel."

You blink. "Like… Like wings and a harp?"

"I do not have a harp."

You turn back to Castiel and smile. "Figure of speech, sorry."

"You should get some rest," Sam says with a smile. "You're still tired."

You shake your head a little. "Slept enough. Don't want to."

Dean's lips pressed to your knuckles has you looking over at him. "Go to sleep, Y/N," he says gently. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Comfort and warmth wraps around you like a blanket, but you're nervous. Dean doesn't have a great track record when it comes to being there when you wake up. "Promise?"

An emotion you can't quite get a read on passes through his green eyes. "I promise."

 **xxxxx**

You wake up the next morning with sunlight pouring in through the hospital room windows. You feel _much_ better, but there's some pain in your midsection, and you're starving.

You try to sit up, tired of being on your back, but your right hand is held fast.

When you look down, you see that Dean kept his promise. He's there, head resting on your bed, your hand gripped tightly in his. You take the opportunity to study his sleeping, perfect face, then tug at your hand. His flexes around it, keeping you there, and it brings a smile to your face. "Dean," you say softly. "Dean, honey, can I have that back? I need to sit up."

He starts awake, blinking blearily at you. Then he smiles, and the sight of him, sleepy smile and warm green eyes, sears itself onto your heart.

"Morning," you whisper.

"Yeah, morning," he says roughly, sitting up and running a hand down his face. "How're you feeling?"

You sit up, then hiss between your teeth as pain thuds through your stomach as you settle yourself in a sitting position. "Okay. There's some pain, but it's not unmanageable."

He tenses and stands, hands fluttering around you nervously. "Hang on, God dammit, don't move, let me go get a nurse."

You shake your head. "Dean, I'm fine. I don't need a nurse."

He frowns down at you. "Y/N, you almost died. A nurse should take a look at you."

You put a hand on his arm. "Dean, hang on, just… Just, not for a minute, okay?"

He sighs and sits down again. "Why?"

You smile. "It's been a while since I've seen you. How are you? What were you guys doing?" You frown a little. "Wait, start with why you're here?"

His face darkens, and you remember the "trouble" you're in.

"I think the more important question is why are _you_ here, sweetheart," he says softly.

You try to let your face settle into impassiveness. "I, uh, I got hurt."

He scoffs darkly. "Yeah, yeah, I got that." He looks you full in the face, and you feel heat color your cheeks. "You've been hunting, Y/N."

You raise your chin stubbornly. _He can't tell you what to do,_ you remind yourself, _if he doesn't stick around, he can't tell you what to do._ "Yes, I have."

He sighs. "Wanna tell me why?"

You run your fingers through your hair, and wince when you realize it's in a tangled, obnoxiously matted, greasy mess. "Because I can," you say absently, trying to comb your hair with your fingers and failing miserably.

He stands and leans over to take your hands in his, then sits with them still cradled in his big, strong ones. "You look fine," he says gently, then frowns again. "Y/N, what the hell were you thinking?"

You sigh and leave your hands in his hard ones, savoring the comfort he's offering that way. And he surely can't be _too_ mad if he's still being gentle. "I was thinking that if I know what's out there, and if I can figure out how to fight it, I should be out there, helping people."

"Why?" he asks. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

You frown. "Because I didn't want to have this conversation, Dean." He opens his mouth, and you hurry to speak before he can interrupt. "Look, you can't tell me what to do, you can't stop me unless you're with me. And you're not willing to stay with me, or take me with you, so you're just going to have to find a way to deal with this."

His face darkens again, which is probably supposed to be intimidating, but you're not scared of Dean Winchester, so you glare at him. "God dammit, Y/N-"

"Dean," Sam's disbelieving voice says from the doorway. "You _cannot_ be arguing with her right now. Are you serious?"

You smile. "Hi, Sam!"

He returns your smile and comes around to the other side of your bed. He leans down to press a kiss to your head. "How are you feeling?"

You shrug. "I'm all right. There's a little pain, still."

He nods. "Yeah, Cass said he could only do part of the healing for you."

"Where is Cass?" you ask eagerly. "I want to meet him when I'm not tired out of my mind."

"Now, just hold on," Dean snaps. "We were having a conversation."

"No," Sam argues firmly, "You're arguing with a woman who's been gravely injured in the last week. Lay off, Dean, you guys can talk about hunting when she's back on her feet."

"Yeah, stuff it, Winchester," you say cheerfully as the nurse comes in.

He grumbles, but backs off while the nurse does an exam.

 **xxxxx**

The doctors are baffled, but they release you in a few days, after umpteen numbers of what you suspect are extremely expensive tests. You and Trent have _okay_ health insurance, but it's not great. You don't say a word about the money, just smile and submit to the tests. You don't want to hear all four men who have become your constant company assuring you that they'll pay for it.

Castiel is… Interesting. Very dry, he doesn't get sarcasm, and you think he's angry at Dean for something. But outside of that, he's also sweet, he checks on you constantly, and heaven knows you understand being mad at Dean, so you don't mention it.

Dean has become almost unbearable. He's hovering over you, insisting on helping you walk, bitching at you about sleeping, and you actually had to kick him out altogether so you could shower the day you woke up. And in the end, it took you threatening to summon Sam for him to relent.

So now, he's got an arm around your waist, leading you away from the hospital like you're some sort of invalid. "Dean," you say gently, smiling. "You know I can walk, right?"

He hmphs and lets you go like you're on fire. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

You smile, and because Sam and Cass are already at your house, so for now it's just you and Dean, you go up on tiptoe and press a kiss to his scruffy cheek. "It's sweet," You whisper into his ear. "And thank you for being here. I know you have more important things to do."

He turns and hits you with those _gorgeous_ eyes. "Sweetheart, there's nothing more important."

You just look back at him sadly for a second, then turn and walk toward the Impala. _Of course there's more important things,_ you think to yourself without bitterness or anger. _There's my "safety" for instance._

 **xxxxx**

Dean watches her walk to the car with his heart sinking. _Dammit._ He saw the heartbreak in her pretty eyes before she turned away.

Because despite Castiel's words, Dean doesn't know what else to do to keep her safe. He could bring her to the bunker, but she would be climbing the walls in a week. She would _hate_ it, and would hate him soon after for insisting she stay there. _Shit._

Since he's not going to think of a solution standing here like an idiot, he follows her to the ear.

To his relief, she's smiling. "This is gorgeous, Dean," she says reverently, running her fingers across Baby's hood.

He smiles, unable not to. "Yeah, she's a beaut."

He unlocks the doors and they get in. Her eyes are wide and lovely, taking everything in with the same smile. "God, she really is amazing."

He smiles as he starts the car, and he doesn't miss the way his soulmate shivers when the engine roars. "Yeah, she is. Got us across the country in two days for a Jayhawks game once."

She laughs, and he feels the sound of it everywhere. "Oh, wow. Are you from Kansas?" she asks, eyes twinkling.

He smiles quizzically. "Yeah, you knew that."

She chuckles and shakes her head. "I most certainly did not. I would remember being told that my one and only is a good ol' boy."

The words are still amused and teasing, not upset, but they hit Dean like a ton of bricks. It occurs to him, for the first time, how little she _actually_ knows about him. Hell, now that he thinks of it, this is the first time she's even been in the car.

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

It's her turn to look confused. "For being from Kansas?" She shrugs and smiles. "I mean it's not _ideal,_ of course, it's _Kansas,_ but I think I'll be all right."

He smiles, but there's no humor in it. "No, I just…" He rubs a hand down his face and makes no move to drive. "You drew the short straw when you got me, sweetheart. I know I've said it before, but… I really am sorry."

Her soft hand on his face has him turning to look at her. There's a gentle, God help him _loving_ smile on her face. "Dean, where is this coming from?"

He can't help but keep looking at her. He doesn't know how to tell her how much this hurts him, how he knows now what he's doing to her, but has no idea how to fix it. So he just looks at her.

Somehow, she seems to glean an answer from his silence, anyway. She sighs and strokes his cheek. "Stop, Dean," she says softly. "You've got to stop torturing yourself over this. It's not healthy." He scoffs, and she smiles again and continues. "Dean, you feel bad about the wrong thing. Leaving me behind? You, you should have some guilt over that. But not being my soulmate." Her eyes are getting misty now, but her voice is steady. "Dean, I wouldn't want anyone else, even if I did have the choice."

He knows he shouldn't, he's been so _fucking_ careful with her, hasn't put his hands on her to do anything but sleep in _months._ But her sweet, pretty eyes, forgiving him for the unforgivable, are too much for him. So he leans forward and kisses her gently.

Her hand stays on his jaw as she submits immediately, which is so sexy he can barely process it. She opens for him when he runs his tongue along her soft bottom lip, and he takes control. She tastes like strawberry Jell-O and heaven.

It's a long, long time before he can bring himself to pull away. Even then, he doesn't let her go far. One of his hands has come up to cup the back of her head, so he keeps her there, and just presses his forehead to hers.

"Let's go home, Dean."

 **xxxxx**

You're outside, sitting on a rocking chair on your back porch, reflecting on how different life is now than it was a year ago.

One year ago, if you had gotten into an accident, you would have woken up alone in that hospital. Well, Trent would have been there, but he's the only one, the only person you can reasonably call your friend. And even then, you're too proud to ask him for help. So you would have been on your own.

Now you had to come outside for some _quiet._ Cass, Sam, and of course Dean, have been fussing over you like mother hens. They barely let you go to the bathroom by yourself. It would be sweet if it wasn't so infuriating. Trent went home hours ago, because he is a smart man, who saw how close you were to breaking someone's nose.

The door opens behind you and you stay facing forward, because somehow, you know it's not Dean.

He sits in the rocker next to you. "How are you feeling?" his gravelly voice asks.

You smile. "I'm fine, Castiel. Thank you."

"I'm glad."

The two of you sit in silence for a while, which makes you appreciation for the angel grow. For several days, everyone has been constantly talking to you. "Are you all right?" "Is there any pain?" "Can you feel this?" It's exhausting. So it's nice that Castiel did one quick check, then let silence reign.

After a long while, "Dean, too, is happy that you are all right."

You finally turn to meet those shocking blue eyes. "I know," you say softly.

He tilts his head and studies you you, which you find endearing. "You're not angry with him. For your… Arrangement."

You shrug and look forward, drawing the blanket you're wrapped in more firmly around your shoulders. "I was for a while. I mean, it was pretty disappointing. But, as I'm sure you're well aware, arguing with Dean is like yelling at a brick wall. It did no good to be mad, so I'm trying to go with the flow."

There's more silence, then, "You're a rather extraordinary woman, Y/N."

You turn again, eyebrows raised. "Thank you… Also, why?"

He smiles a little. "Y/N, have you ever met someone who's soulmate story didn't go well?"

You nod, confused. "My parents couldn't stand one another, but they were definitely soulmates."

"It never ends well for the people involved," he says softly, looking forward, out to the woods that are behind your home. "They often become depressed, desolate. A surprising number of these people kill themselves."

Your eyebrows go up again, shocked. _"Suicide?"_ Even in your darkest moments after Dean decided not to stay with you, you never considered _suicide._ Not that you have a bad opinion of people who commit suicide, you've always thought it was extremely sad, but it surprises you that not clicking with the person who was your soulmate could drive someone that far down.

Castiel nods. "Yes, it takes a toll." He turns to look at you, that same, strange smile on his face. "But then there's you. You met Dean, and he didn't want to stay. So instead of raging, or shouting, or falling to despair, you tell him to come back. You tell him to come back whenever he can. And _then,_ instead of waiting for him, you decide to start hunting. That's very impressive."

You smile, pride warming yourself. "Thank you, Castiel. That means a lot to me."

 **xxxxx**

Later, after everyone is fed (which was a fight in itself, getting Dean to get out of the way so you could cook), you're sitting on the couch, watching a movie, fighting sleep, and fighting the urge to lean against Dean.

The kiss in the Impala rocked your world a little. It wasn't hard, or desperate, or needy, like the other handful of kisses you've shared with Dean have been. It was… Soft. Sweet. Loving.

And a huge, huge, _huge_ step backward in accepting your situation with him.

Because now, you want to curl up in his lap like a kitten and stay there forever. You want to let him banish all of your fears and worries and just get lost in his strong arms, your head tucked beneath his chin as he rocks you.

But, since that would make _everything_ worse, you're not doing it.

You decide you've had enough. "All right, gentlemen, I'm going to bed." You stand, then sway a little on your feet as another wave of exhaustion hits you.

Dean's standing next to you in an instant, his arm around your waist. "Let me help," he says softly.

But you know what you want him to do. You want him to take you upstairs and gently undress you. Then you want him to kiss every inch of flesh he bares, whispering how glad he is that you're all right, that he loves you, that he'll never leave you. Then you want him to lay you down and fuck you silly, before you fall asleep in one another's sweaty arms, only to wake up to him, there and firm and _real,_ in the morning.

So you shake your head and step away from him. "No, no, I'm all right, Dean." You soften the rebuke with a smile. "Watch the movie, I'll be fine."

You tear your eyes away from his and turn to walk away before you cry. The dull ache in your heart is growing fiercer by the second, but you're familiar with dealing with a heart broken by Dean Winchester. God knows you've had one for long enough. You just need to go to bed and cry. You'll be all right in the morning.

All your plans, however, are laid to waste when you stumble on the next step away. He catches you, curses under his breath, then you're gently scooped into his arms, princess-style.

"Dean," you protest softly, but even to your own ears your voice sounds tired.

He's already walking away from the living room. When you almost fell, Sam stood to help, too, and you hear him sit back down. Cass stayed where he was, but there was a look on his face that bears investigation.

Lucky for him, however, you're too tired to do much besides press your face into Dean's chest and let him carry you up the stairs.

When he gets to your bedroom and kicks the door shut behind him, he stiffens just a little, and you know why. Traditionally, when a man carries a girl to her bedroom, the next step is undressing her.

You sigh and take pity on him, ruthlessly crushing the little spark of hope in your chest. It will kill you if you let it grow, and you suddenly understand the people Castiel was talking about a little better.

"Put me down, Dean," you say gently. "I can do this part all by myself." You smile up into his handsome, worried face. "I'm all right."

He sets you down gently, and you slowly make your way to the closet. You open the door, fight with yourself for a moment, then step inside.

 _Don't show off just because he's here,_ you tell yourself tiredly, trying to stem the tears in your eyes. _Don't make this harder for him or yourself._

It does no good. You ache for him, and he's never going to be what you want. Not if he keeps leaving you here. And you've adjusted to that, you really have.

But right now, you're tired and you're weak and you're certain that you're going to have nightmares and you're hiding in a closet because your soulmate has never seen you without clothes on.

So you cry softly, trying to keep the noise down to a minimum as you find a long t-shirt to sleep in. Once you're ready for bed, you just stand there, the back of your hand pressed to your mouth, and sob.

His gentle hands on your shoulders don't even draw a reaction from you. You just stay still and try desperately to get yourself under control as he wraps his arms around you and presses your back to his chest.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," he murmurs, "You're all right now."

 _He thinks I'm upset about being hurt,_ you realize, kind of surprised.

"Yeah, yeah," you whisper shakily, trying to stop crying and sniffling.

He pauses, then inhales sharply. "You're, uh, you're not crying about the werewolf."

You take a deep breath, trying to banish the sadness threatening to overwhelm you. "I'm fine, Dean," you say softly, willing it to be true.

He tucks you in even closer against him, his cheek resting against your temple. "Fuck," he whispers.

That gets a laugh out of you. "Yeah, basically."

"Y/N, I'm-"

"Dean," you say dangerously, "If you apologize again, I'm going to inflict bodily harm."

You turn and cup his face in your hands as his arms settle around you again, still keeping you close. "Dean, _stop it._ I'm okay." You search his sad green eyes, willing him to understand. "Dean, I'm upset, I'm always going to be upset. But I understand, I understand what you're doing, that you're trying to protect me. Dean, this is going to get you _killed_ if you keep doing this."

He doesn't look away from you. "I should go," he whispers roughly. "I should go and never come back."

Your heart seizes, and you shake your head frantically. _"No,_ please, don't, I'm sorry, I'm just tired, I'll keep it together better when you're here. Please don't stay away-"

He brings a hand up to cup the back of your head and he kisses your forehead tenderly, which stops the flow of words. "Shh, it's not… It's not because of you, sweetheart. You're too good for this, too good for me. This is going to _kill_ you, Y/N."

You look up at him again, firm in your desire. "Worth it."

He frowns down at you. "No, it isn't, Y/N. You should just let me go."

You shake your head. "No. Never."

"Why?" he whispers desperately, brokenly.

And it hits home for you how much this man loathes himself. How much he hates everything about himself, hates the way it's affected his brother and the world around him and heaven and hell. He hates the way it's affected you, the way it makes you cry and hurt. He genuinely doesn't understand why you want him to stay with you, even if it's just for a little bit at a time.

So you tell him.

You smile and rub a thumb along his perfect cheekbone, you fingers gently caressing his stubbly jaw. "Because I'm in love with you, dummy."

 **xxxxx**

"Why?" he whispers desperately, brokenly.

Why the _fuck_ would she want him to stay here? He causes nothing but trouble for her. She doesn't cry in front of him a lot, but he knows she has to when he's gone. He only lets himself break enough to sleep next to her, he hasn't kissed her since that time in the kitchen (which replays in a constant loop in the back of his mind all the time). He drinks too much, he drives too fast, he's damn near fifteen years older than her, and _why the fuck would she want him to stay here?_

He looks down at her beautiful face, and he needs her. He needs her to tell him why, why she would want him when all he's going to do is break her heart over and over and _over_ again.

Her soft hands on his face send warmth spreading through his chest.

"Because I'm in love with you, dummy."

Everything that is in Dean, and everything that has ever been in him, stills to a complete halt. She's gazing up at him with her pretty eyes, love and faith shining in them, love for _him,_ faith in _him,_ and something in him crumbles.

His resistance.

 **xxxxx**

You're looking up at Dean, confident in your declaration. He won't say it back, but you're all right with that. Fate brought you to this broken man, and if this is what will heal him, you will say it a hundred, a thousand times over, again and again and again, to do just that.

He's staring down at you like you're the most precious thing in the world, and something low and hot in your belly kicks on, making your breath catch.

His sharp, quick eyes drop to your mouth, making you tremble as his gaze changes from reverent to _hungry._ If he keeps looking at you like that, like he's a predator and you're on the menu, you're absolutely certain you won't make it.

Afraid to break the spell, exhaustion forgotten for the time being, you stay as still as possible and wait for him to make the first move.

 **xxxxx**

 _Don't kiss her. Don't kiss her. Get out of here. Don't look at her. Stop touching her. And for God's sake, don't think about the way she'll move under you, or the sounds she'll make-_

 _Not helping! You've got to get out of her. Stop looking at her mouth. Stop touching her face, what are you doing?!_

And then, in a moment of simultaneous absolute weakness and perfect strength, Dean gives in.

 _Mine._

 **xxxxx**

You keep your eyes on his face as his hand comes up to cup your cheek. He slides it back, so his fingers wrap around the back of your neck, tangling in your hair. His thumb rests just beneath your jaw, making you feel vulnerable. He lets it stay for the barest of moments before using to so, so slowly, tilt your head back a little more, exposing your neck to him.

Something deep within you is instinctively responding to the raging dominance that oozes from his every pore. Everything in you is taut and still, waiting for him to do whatever he's going to do.

Because even though you're dizzy with desire, even though you can feel yourself getting damp just from this, you don't want him to regret it. You want him to be there with you, looking into your eyes as he sinks into you for the first time, not already knee-deep in self-loathing. So you stay still, ready for whatever decision he makes.

His eyes heat up with a possessive light that makes your head spin. Then he slowly, giving you ample time to pull away or protest, tilts his head down until his mouth is just a whisper from yours.

The moment is drawn out into what has to be hours, but is probably just seconds. The tension is going to kill you, and you're seconds away from taking control of the situation your damn self when he finally, _finally_ moves.

The first hesitant, soft press of his lips against yours imprints itself on your heart, and as his mouth moves gently, you know it's a moment that's with you forever.

You kiss him back, just as gently, learning him. His hand on your face makes you feel warm, protected. His hard body is pressed up against your soft one, sending hot delight spreading through you.

His other hand moves down your body, leaving goosebumps in his wake, until it rests on your hip. It's still covered by your long t-shirt, but the feeling of his long fingers there makes you hollow and needy.

Without thinking too much about it, your hands move down to his chest, then you fist them in his shirt and use that to pull him even closer. You tilt your head and hesitantly open for him to deepen the kiss.

His breathy groan into your mouth makes your toes curl. His thick arm wrapping around your waist and lifting makes you squeak.

His smiles against your lips, and while you wrap your legs around him, you marvel at the relaxed man now holding you up. One of his arms is still around you, and the other hand has left your hair to land beneath your upper thigh, supporting you as he moves the two of you to the bed. It's like something let go of him, and all of the focus he was putting on making himself miserable is now centered entirely on you. It's a heady, almost intimidating feeling.

When he gets to his destination, he lifts you away from him. You let your legs drop from around his slim waist, and he sets you gently on the bed.

It puts your face level with his flat belly. Biting your lip, you lean forward and run your hands from his chest, down to his stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. Without looking up at him, some part of you still submissive, but the rest of you doing whatever you want, you push him back gently, just a step.

It's an echo of the first time you wanted this, when he left you cold and aching without him. To make sure he doesn't misinterpret what you're doing, you immediately slide off of the bed and onto your knees in front of him. Which now bring you face to face with his cock, straining in his jeans.

You place your hands on his knees, and move them up his legs until you're undoing his belt. Despite the confidence you feel, your hands are shaking. You're _terrified_ that he's about to pull away, and you're not sure if you can take that. But the thought of him in your mouth is making you lightheaded, so you undo his belt, pop the button, and, with the intoxication that is his presence thrumming through your veins, you lean forward and pull his zipper down with your teeth.

His ragged inhale makes your fear dissipate immediately. You tug on his jeans and boxers until he's free, then you're struck by both the gravity of the moment, and by the absolute beauty that is Dean Winchester's cock.

Because this is it. The next move you make is going to set the two of you on this path for good, until the end. There is a heavy feel about this moment, not just related to what you're about to do to him.

And because his cock is probably the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. It's _huge,_ first of all. He's long and thick, making you tremble when you think of it inside you.

 _Not yet, girl, focus._

With the very tip of your tongue, you slowly, gently lick a line from the sensitive spot just beneath the head up to that little slit, then press into it, just a little, until he moans.

" _Jesus,"_ he whispers, his hands fisting at his sides.

With a smile, you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, then hollow your cheeks and take as much of him into your mouth as you can, quickly and smoothly. His tip hits the back of your throat and you swallow to fight back the ghost of a gag reflex you have, which makes him shudder.

" _Fuck,_ Y/N, Jesus Christ," he breaths, his hands twisting tighter around themselves.

Rolling your eyes, you take one hand up and circle his thick wrist with your fingers, rubbing the skin there until he relaxes. Then you gently place his hand on the back of your head, hoping he gets the hint.

He groans, and you look up to see that he's tilted his head back and the cords in his neck are standing out. His hand fists in your hair, and he gently pulls you away. You let him, but keep the suction tight on him, savoring the weighty feel of in him your mouth, the silken feel of him against your tongue.

He pulls you away until just the tip is in your mouth, then hesitantly pushes you back down. Heat is twirling in your stomach, and you can feel your panties getting damp.

He thrusts a little the next time he pushes back down, fucking your mouth just a _little,_ and you can't help the little whimper that comes from you. He pauses, so you lick the sensitive underside of his cock and gently rub a little circle with your thumb onto his hip, silently telling him you're okay. He moans again and thrusts into you with a little bit more insistence, and you swallow again and take it eagerly, still whining in the back of your throat.

He suddenly pulls away from you with a _pop_ sound, his breathing labored and fast. "Jesus fucking _Christ,_ sweetheart, you can suck some cock."

The word coming from his perfect mouth makes another needy whine come from your mouth, and you bite your lip to keep more sound from escaping.

He shudders at the sound, and tilts his chin up. "Bed, sweetheart."

You whimper and get to your feet, but before you can climb back onto the bed, one of his hands shoots out, wraps around the back of your head, and yanks you toward him, crashing his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss. You cry out and frantically grab at his shirt again, opening for him immediately so his tongue can invade your mouth brutally.

You don't particularly care where his other hand is until it's on your stomach, then it's moving down to gently cup you through your underwear. You gasp into his mouth. _"Dean."_

He smiles against your lips. "Yeah, baby, good girl. I'm gonna have you _screaming_ my name," he whispers, "but first, I wanna see you come."

His hand is gone for less than a second, then it's slipping under your panties, against your skin, then he's _there._ Your breath escapes you and you arch into his hand, mouth open in a silent cry.

His thick fingers move through your folds, flirt with your opening just for a moment, then he moves up to your clit. He's moving in a strong, lovely motion against you, that has you grinding against his hand wantonly, all thoughts of pride and control gone.

"Dean, oh, God, Dean-" you're whispering against him. You realize he's moved you so your face is pressed against his neck, his hand holding you there, his mouth next to your ear.

"That's right, sweetheart, God, you feel so good, I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you just gotta come for me."

You're nodding and moving with the rhythm he's set helplessly, your nails digging into his shoulders, your hips rolling against him. "Okay, Dean, oh, fuck, shit, Dean, fuck!"

His fingers are _incredible,_ moving against your clit, sending you toward climax faster than you would think was possible. You just hang onto him and move with him, unable to resist him.

Your orgasm _rips_ through you, and you come so hard the world goes white. You sink your teeth into his neck and scream, trembling and jerking against him.

He doesn't stop moving his fingers, moving you past pleasure and into discomfort. He grunts when you bite him, but doesn't move away from you, just presses you harder into his neck, moves his fingers faster against your overly sensitive clit, and says the sexiest words you've ever heard in your life.

"Again, sweetheart."

He stops his rhythm against your clit, making you whine, as you soothe the teeth marks on his neck with your tongue. "Dean," you whimper.

"I know, baby, come on, you can do it," he murmurs.

You gasp again and go up onto your tiptoes when he sinks one long, thick finger into you. When he gently moves it out of you and sinks it in again, the size difference between the two of you hits home again. He's _huge,_ every part of him is _huge,_ and the drag of him sinking a second one into you makes your toes curl against the carpet. You decide he doesn't need to be soothed and bite him again. It's the only thing helping with the pleasure rolling through you, that and humping his hand like a madwoman.

He scissors his fingers, stretching you, and he murmurs against your ear again. "Wrap your arms around my neck, sweetheart, your legs are gonna give out."

You obey mindlessly, unable to think around the bliss his fingers are sending up through you. And, to be fair, your legs _are_ trembling hard, and any excuse to have your arms around him is good enough for you.

"Dean, oh, God," you whisper against his warm skin, "I can't, please, _fuck!"_

Your second orgasm in just a few minutes rocks you again, and he was right, your legs _do_ give out. Your arms hold you up, along with his hands behind your head and between your legs. You bite him a third time, and he grunts again.

He pulls his fingers out of you, and you feel your walls flutter around them as he does. "Dean," you whine, letting him go for the final time to soothe the marks you've made.

"I know, sweetheart, come on."

He lifts you again, then gently lays you back onto the bed. You go bonelessly, your head lolling to the side as a smile stretches your lips. "Hmm, you're good at this," you murmur.

He chuckles and leans back to strip his shirt off, which makes you lean up on your elbows to watch him. "I've been around," he says vaguely as he steps off of the bed to rid himself of his jeans and boxers.

"Hmm, good," you purr, letting your eyes roam over his absolutely _ridiculous_ body. His shoulders are broad and muscled, his arms thick, his chest chiseled. There's maybe just a smidge of softening around his middle, but a life on the road will do that to you, and it's not nearly as much as it could be, with the way the man treats himself.

And then, of course, there's his beautiful cock, still glistening from your mouth. It makes a wave of possessiveness wash through you, which you give into without a fight.

 _Mine._

He smirks at your appraisal and climbs back up onto the bed. He stops to kiss your ankle, your shin, your knee, and your upper thigh. You sigh and drop back, soaking in the feeling of him finally touching you with that mouth made for sinning.

His hands trace up your legs with feather light touches, then hook into the waistband of your panties and slowly slides them off. You shudder as his calloused fingers skim your skin, reawakening the neediness in you. "Dean," you whisper.

"Shh," he whispers back, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee as he slowly moves back up your body. "I've got you, sweetheart."

He lays little kisses up your inner thigh, and you watch as he prepares to settle there.

As much as you want his mouth on you, you want him _in_ you more. So you sit up and strip your shirt off, then put your hands on his face to bring him up and kiss him thoroughly. He comes willingly, now on his hands and knees in front of you, between your spread legs.

You pull away and rest your forehead against his. "Please, Dean, no more," you beg softly, "please, I need you, _please."_

He cuts you off with another forceful kiss on your lips, then pulls away to lay a trail of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "Someone's getting greedy," he murmurs against your skin.

You nod eagerly, anticipation making you shake as he uses his body to press you back against the pillows.

Once you're down, his mouth moves from your neck to your collarbone. You tilt your head back and try to relax and stem the aching want in your core.

He smiles against your chest, and you realize that you whimpered a little without knowing it, _and_ that he knows _exactly_ what you want, and he's going to make you beg for it.

Just as you resolve to _never_ do that, he goes down and takes one of your nipples into his gifted mouth. He sucks just enough to almost hurt, then rolls it gently between his lips.

Thoughts of pride once again flee your mind, and your back arches hard as you cry out softly. _"Dean!"_

As a reward, he hums against you and brings a hand up to roll your other nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Mindlessly, you roll your hips up to press against him. It brings your hot, sopping entrance to the tip of his cock. The contact makes you both gasp and groan. His mouth drops from your nipple, and you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair desperately.

"Dean," you whine, trying to rock your hips up into him. _"Please."_

He's lost some of the humor that was in his eyes, and he looms over you for a moment. He rests his weight on his forearms, presses his lips against your forehead, and stills.

You take the opportunity to absorb the moment. His firm body, trembling just a little with tension, leaned over you. His hip bones are digging into your thighs, and his big arms are caging you in, making you feel small and sheltered.

You lean up to kiss his stubbly jaw, content to lay here with him for a few seconds, to let him catch up with what's happening.

"Sweetheart, are you sure?" he rasps.

You blink and look up at him, meeting his nervous green eyes. You smile reassuringly and cup his cheek in your hand. _He's so handsome._

"Dean, I've always been sure of you." You fight with yourself, then, "Are _you_ sure?"

When his eyebrows go up you swallow hard. "Um, because if you're not, or you don't want to do this, tell me now, and I'll figure out a way to be-"

He cuts you off with his mouth against yours. You give up and ignore the beat of pain in your chest gratefully. You don't want to be an adult about this. You don't want to be fair and understanding and level-headed anymore. You're tired of it, you're tired of pretending his absence and his, albeit gentle, rejections aren't killing you slowly.

For now, for tonight, you want to just be with the man you love.

So you kiss him back hard, loop your arms around his neck, and bring your legs up to wrap them around his waist. _Mine._

He breaks away and lays gentle kisses across your face until his lips are at your ear again. "Listen, sweetheart, you're _tight,_ so we have to go slow, okay?" At your protesting whine, he gives you a strained chuckle. "I know, baby, but you've got to trust me, all right?"

You turn your head to meet his eyes again. "Always. I always trust you."

He looks at you reverently again, just for a moment, then kisses you softly. As he does, he begins to press into you.

You gasp into his mouth. _Jesus._ He's big, he's _huge,_ and you knew that, but now you _know._ He moves slowly, inexorably, filling and stretching you until it hurts. It's a burning sensation, and even though you're not one of those people who gets off on pain, it's so good it has your eyes rolling back in pleasure.

He's moving incredibly slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him. But you keep your legs tight around him and hang on, shuddering uncontrollably as he impales you.

It feels like forever before he bottoms out, but when he does, you both moan loudly. He rests his forehead on the pillow next to your head, and you just try to breathe around the pleasure bordering on pain.

When you've had time to adjust, you swivel your hips experimentally, just the barest of movements. His whole body tenses. "You're gonna want to keep still, sweetheart," he says softly, practically a growl.

Unable to help yourself, you do it again. "Why?" you ask innocently, making your eyes wide.

He lifts his head to look down at you, eyebrow cocked His whole body is tense and strong and big, and the look in his eyes makes it hard to hold his gaze. You do it, ignoring your natural instinct to submit, but it's not easy.

"Somebody's sassy when she's full of cock," he says darkly, wonderingly. Your eyes widen for real this time at his next words.

"Maybe we can do something about that."

He pulls out suddenly, making you suck in a breath at the empty feeling you're left with. When he drives back into you, it's much faster than the first time, and it makes you cry out. _"Dean!"_

"Hmm, where'd all that backtalk go, baby?" he purrs into your ear, pulling out and thrusting back into you again.

You only have a soft whimper to give him. He's filling you and leaving you empty and filling you again, the thick drag of him moving inside you, touching every place you've ever wanted to be touched. It's just this side of too much.

His lips at your ear again. "Shh, baby, you're gonna get me in trouble."

You realize that you're softly crying out every time he enters you again. You try to stop, but the next time he thrusts into you, you whimper loudly and cant your hips up to meet him.

You lean up to kiss him desperately. You're having trouble thinking around the bliss coursing through you, but you make yourself speak.

"Let them hear."

He shudders against you and snaps his hips forward, into you, and you realize he's been holding back. So you run your hands up to his shoulders, then rake your fingernails down his chiseled back.

"Asking for trouble, sweetheart," he mutters against your mouth.

You smile, completely _done_ with him treating you like you're made of glass.

"Good."

A dangerous light enters his eyes, and he suddenly sits up and away from you, sitting on his heels. You start to complain, but his arm snakes around you and hauls you up against him. He does it effortlessly, and it's so sexy you lose your breath.

He holds you where you are and looks into your eyes, which are level with his in this position. You can see his control slipping, and there's something violent and passionate in his gaze.

You _want_ it.

"This isn't going to be gentle, baby," he whispers, his eyes searching yours.

You bite your lip. "Good," you say again.

His hands land on your hips, and he lifts you, looking up at you like a man in love. You only have a moment to let your heart flutter before he starts moving again.

He starts fucking up into you with a purpose, driving all thoughts out of your mind. You wrap your arms around his neck and steal his lips in a searing kiss. He's slamming into you, and you're crying out into his mouth, heat blooming inside you at his rough treatment.

Two orgasms is usually your limit, your _outside_ limit, but the sex god beneath you seems determined to pull a third from you.

"Dean," you whimper, moving with his rhythm, meeting him thrust for thrust.

He wraps his arm around your waist again, and his other hand comes up to cup the back of your head. He draws you to where you wanted to be anyway, your face buried in his neck. "Come on, sweetheart, one more," he says roughly. "You can give me one more."

You desperately shake your head against him. "No, I can't, Dean, I can't," Despite your mewling protest, your hips are rolling against him, and you're swivelling them just so every time he buries himself in you.

"Yes, you can," he says gently, his tone at odds with his hard thrusts and his bruising grip.

His loving tone has you nodding and meeting him even harder. Grinding down, feeling him fill you, then lifting up, appreciating the strength in the beautiful man beneath you.

When you come, it's not hard. It's slow and gentle and all-consuming. You don't have any screams left, so you gently press your face into his neck and whine low in the back of your throat.

He comes almost silently. One last, jarring thrust, and a low, rumbling growl in his chest as his heat spills into you. His hands become iron around you when he goes rigid, which is comforting because you lost the ability to reliably move somewhere between your first and second orgasm.

You stay like that for a long time, his arms wrapped around you, you cuddled into his warm strength. _Has he always been like a furnace?_

Finally, he lifts his head from where it was resting on your shoulder and presses a kiss to your temple. "Come on, sweetheart, let's clean up."

 **xxxxx**

Once they're clean and back in bed (thank God she has an adjoining bathroom to the bedroom, Dean doesn't know if he could take smug looks from his brother right now), Dean helplessly tucks her into bed next to him. She's out in an instant, and he's reminded that this morning she woke up in the hospital.

 _God dammit._

He's helpless against her. Her trusting gaze, her soft skin, her loving manner. He knew he'd be helpless against her when they did this, he knew this was going to happen.

And yet…

 _Not that bad, being helpless,_ he thinks to himself.

As he drifts to sleep with her wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, Dean finds he can't be too terribly bothered by the situation. Not tonight at least.

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**  
 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**  
 **Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.**  
 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**  
 ****We're almost to the end of this story, beautiful readers. Thank you for reading it, and loving it as much as I do. I can't tell you how much fun it's been.**


	7. What Are We Gonna Do, Dean?

You wake up sometime in the night, keeping your eyes closed and immediately taking stock of your surroundings. It's a habit you've gotten into since you started hunting.

You feel _amazing._ There are still delicious tingles in your lower half, and a dull, pleasant ache between your legs. You realize that you're even smiling.

The smile slips off of your face, however, when you realize you're alone in the bed.

 _Dammit._ You don't know why you thought sleeping together would change anything, but you're hurt beyond belief by his absence. You keep your eyes shut and just lie there, not moving, trying to deal with the painful weight that's appeared on your chest.

 _Fuck. Of course he's gone, you stupid woman. You're alive, you're at home, and you thought letting him in your pants would make him stay? Please, you're not-_

You're knocked out of your musings by the bed dipping beside you. Your eyes snap open to see Dean getting back into bed, slipping in next to you, watching you with warm green eyes. "Hey, sweetheart."

"You… You're still here," you say softly as he lies down next to you.

Pain flashes in his eyes as he gathers you close slowly. "Yeah, I'm still here."

You lift your head to let his big arm slip beneath it, then you look up into his handsome face. "Sorry, I just, uh, I guess I just didn't expect that."

He places a hand on your face, then runs his fingers through your hair gently. "Yeah, don't apologize. I get it."

You sigh, bury your face in his chest, and fling your arm around his waist. "Oh, God, I'm so glad you're here," you whisper fervently, honestly, tears filling your eyes.

There's a deep rumble in his chest, and his arms come around you to hold you close. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Me, too, sweetheart. Go back to sleep, I've got you."

 **xxxxx**

The next time you wake up, you're on your back, your hips needily canting up to meet him. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, and your legs are draped over his shoulders, and you are already whimpering. _"Dean."_

His deep chuckle sends shivers up and down your spine. "Shh, sweetheart, you're all right."

Your hands move down to thread through his hair, tugging gently. "Oh, fuck, Dean-"

He nibbles his way up your thigh, and it's just the right amount of sting to make your back arch. Your legs fall open further, and your breathing is hard and ragged.

"You smell good, baby," he murmurs against your sensitive skin. He bites gently on your inner thigh, as far up as he can get without actually _being_ where you need him to _be,_ then sucks hard enough to make you cry out again. _"Dean!"_

"Shh, sweetheart, gonna get us in trouble again."

You arch your back and try to pull him to you, any pride forgotten as you pant with need. You don't know how you're already soaking wet, he's got to be some sort of sex deity, but you absolutely do not care. You _need_ his mouth on you.

"Dean, _please,_ please, I need it, I need _you,_ oh, God, I need you, _Dean-"_

He hums against your thigh, silencing you as you writhe. "You sound good when you beg for it, too."

"Dean, _please-"_

Before more pleading can fall from your lips, he buries his face in you. He lays the flat is his tongue against you, then delves deeper. He moves tenderly, slowly, exploring and sending you spiralling. You roll your hips up against his face, and he lets you, just continuing to eat you like he's starving and you're the only meal around.

You feel the heat start to make your thighs tremble around his head. "Oh, fuck, Dean-"

He must know how close you are, because he zeroes in on your clit. He pulls it into his _incredible_ mouth, then begins to run his tongue against the underside of your clit. You know you're squeezing his head between your legs, and that you're keening too loudly to not be heard, but you can't seem to stop either.

He pulls away for just a moment. "Say my name," he growls, "let everyone know who you belong to, sweetheart." As soon as the last word is out of his mouth, he goes back to attacking you.

The words shouldn't turn you on. You're a grown-ass woman. You've been taking care of yourself for damn near a decade now. You do _not_ belong to _anyone._

But feminism or no, it's the sexiest thing anyone's ever said to you. It's dominant and demanding and masculine. And it makes the hot pressure deep inside you burst in a massive explosion that takes you with it.

So you obey. You tilt your head back and wail, _"Dean!"_

Pleasure washes into you, making your fingers fist in Dean's hair, making your legs quake, making all of your senses go perfectly blank.

You're pliant and mindless in blissfulness as Dean moves back up your body. You can barely even summon a moan when he gently bites your nipple, it comes out as more of a whine.

When he gets up to your mouth, he seems to hesitate. But you know what you want, and what _he_ wants, so you lean up and press your dry, chapped lips to his plush, wet ones. When he groans, you sweep your tongue into his glorious mouth, tasting your essence in him. You moan yourself when you feel how turned on he is against your inner thigh.

"Fuck, that's hot," he mutters against your mouth.

You smile against him. "Dean, fuck me."

He groans again and pulls away to press his forehead to yours. "You're not sore? I don't want to hurt you."

You press little kisses to his jaw, humming happily against his stubble. "Hmm, don't care."

He sighs and goes up onto his forearms to look down at you. "Y/N."

You run your hands from his broad shoulders down to his muscled chest. "Dean, it has been over a year since I got laid, so if it hurts a little, that's a good thing."

He stills, and you take advantage to lean up and nibble at his neck. _He's ridiculously attractive._

"O… Over a year?"

You sigh and fall back onto the pillows. "Yes, over a year. Can we do this now?"

No luck. He's still staring down at you, an unreadable expression on his face. "What?" you ask. "Why is that surprising?"

"I… I don't know."

You lean up again, this time to prop yourself up on your elbow and put a hand on his face, trying to stroke away the stricken look. "There's no one else. There hasn't been anyone since we met, and there never will be. Even if you don't stay, Dean, you're the only one. You'll always be the only one."

He stares down at you for a breath, and a wordless promise is given to you. Not about him staying, or about him keeping you with him. Not about hunting, or about letting you into his life, or about anything regarding the outside world.

It's a promise that, no matter what the future holds, no matter where he goes or if you go with him, or what happens between the two of you…

No matter what, you're going to be his only one, too.

Your mouths crash together in a silent agreement that no more words need to be said. You both already know everything.

He slowly sinks into you, and you dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he stretches your sore muscles again. When he's completely sheathed in your wet heat, you both moan, then he starts moving. Everything is swollen and sensitive, so you can feel every ridge of him, every slow movement, and the gentle way he takes care of you.

Soon, however, it's not enough. You raise your legs to hug his hips with your knees, and you lightly rake your nails down his back. "Dean, please," you whisper, kissing up his warm neck.

"Whatever you want, beautiful," he says roughly.

He picks up the pace, sending delicious sparks through you, curling your toes and making your head tilt back in pleasure. The heat is back, and you're meeting his every thrust, and everything is going in and out of focus as your second orgasm tears through you.

You wrap your arms around him and hang on, and when he stiffens, his forehead is resting on your shoulder. He gives one low, long groan, and you hold him as he shudders above you and euphoria gently washes over you again.

Eventually, you realize he's no longer shuddering in release, he's just shaking. There's no uncertainty or nervousness in you when you notice. You just keep your arms around him, and start running your fingers soothingly through his hair. You just repeat the only thing you can think of, the only thing that has ever mattered, anyway.

"I love you, Dean. Oh, God, I love you so much."

 **xxxxx**

While she's in the shower, Dean is sitting on her bed, waiting for her like a fucking high schooler who's at his girlfriend's house for the first time. It's partially because it's been a rough few days for her, and he wants to make sure she's all right. It's partially because there's no _way_ Sam and Cass didn't hear them last night and this morning, and Dean doubts they'll ream him if she's there.

He's sitting there, trying to get around his self-loathing to think logically about the situation he and Y/N are in. The problem is that he can't. How could he? How could he think realistically about either taking her with him or leaving her here when all he wants to think about is her telling him that she loves him?

 _Focus, dammit._

 _Maybe I can convince her to stop hunting._

 _Yeah, that'll go over real well. You haven't been able to convince her of_ anything _so far._

 _If she's hunting on her own, she could get hurt. Hell, she_ did _get hurt. But if she goes hunting with me, she'll get hurt, anyway._

 _Well, then-_

"What are you thinking about so hard over there?"

Her soft words have his eyes snapping up to meet her sparkling ones. She's smiling, wearing a tank top and tight jeans, with one of his flannels thrown over it all. She looks… _Good._ Healthy, bright, in love.

 _Shit._

"Nothing, sweetheart."

She comes to where he's sitting and bends to kiss him. He kisses her back, helpless once again against her gentle, constant onslaught of love and understanding.

"Liar," she purrs against his lips. She straightens, but submits when he hooks his hands behind her thighs and pulls her forward to press his face into her stomach. _How does she have me acting like a teenager again?_

"Let's go make breakfast, handsome," she says gently, running her fingers through his hair. "You can tell me what you're thinking about after I've fed you."

 **xxxxx**

You're on cloud nine while you cook a massive breakfast for everyone, and you can't remember if you've ever been this happy.

Some of it is because you're alive at all. That werewolf damn near killed you. But here you are, in a shirt that smells like Dean, alive and kicking.

Some of it is having so many people to feed. You really are a pretty solitary person, so you don't get to cook for people very often. Meeting the Winchesters drove home how much you really like it.

Most of your good mood, however, is a direct result of Dean.

He's currently standing behind you, arms keeping you close, face buried in your hair. He hasn't let you go since the two of you left the bedroom, either holding your hand, or standing like he is now. You don't say anything about it, because you're just as needy as he is.

 _Because now, if he leaves-_

 _Nope,_ you cut yourself off ruthlessly. _Not now. Not while he's here._

So you stay firmly on cloud nine while you make breakfast.

 **xxxxx**

Once the whole house starts to smell good, Sam comes down the stairs. Dean wandered off, something about your car, so you're alone in the kitchen.

You know you're blushing furiously, and when you see the twinkle in his hazel eyes, you shoot him a mock glare and point at him with the tongs you're using to flip the bacon. "Not a word, Winchester, not if you want to eat."

He breaks into a full-on grin, but holds his hands up in surrender. "Wasn't gonna."

You narrow your eyes. "Damn right. Coffee's ready."

He doesn't stop smiling as he pulls a mug from the cabinet, and you feel your traitorous mouth start to twitch up into an answering smirk.

 _Dick._

"What's everyone laughing about in here?"

You turn at Dean's words and give in to the need to smile. "No one's laughing," you say easily as he comes to stand next to you. "Sam's just getting coffee."

Dean hmphs and wraps his arm around you. "Is he, now?"

Sam just chuckles and winks at you as he takes a sip. You smile, but before you can say anything, Dean's hands are on your hips, spinning you to face him. You look up into his handsome face, then your eyes fall closed as he kisses you hard.

 _More macho bullshit._ You kiss him back anyway, because you love him, and the man is an artist with his mouth.

When he pulls away, however, you grab the edges of the flannel he's wearing and pull him down to kiss him again, harder. Your hips automatically curl into him, and he groans a little, just enough for you to hear, and your back bends a little as he leans into you.

You pull away abruptly, then smack him on the chest. "Hey, you," you say, your voice low and dangerous, "when you kiss me, you kiss me for _me,_ not for Sam or anyone else. Got me, Winchester?" You ignore the little voice in your head that says he won't be kissing you for long.

He blinks, then grins that stupid, heart-melting grin at you. The one that's carefree and happy and you haven't seen nearly enough of. "Yes, ma'am."

You turn back to the stove, flip a laughing Sam the bird, then turn the burners off. "Let's eat, gentlemen."

 **xxxxx**

Dean groans and pushes his plate away. "I'm gonna be sick."

Sam chuckles, but Dean is entranced by Y/N, who's laughing out loud.

"I guess I should take that as a compliment," she says with a smile, her eyes sparkling happily at him.

He nods enthusiastically, anything to keep her smiling. "Yeah, yes, definitely."

She laughs again, carelessly making his heart thud in his chest, as she stands and starts clearing the table. "You're easy to please."

Sam moves to stand, too. "Y/N, let me help."

She points at him with a fork. "Sit, Sam. Relax. I know I must have dragged you away from a hunt, so just chill for a while."

She leaves into the kitchen with a pile of dishes. The words, "before you go," hang in the air behind her. Dean's heart thuds in his chest for a very different reason.

As soon as she's out of earshot, Dean puts his elbows on the table and rubs his face hard. "Shit."

"What are we gonna do, Dean?"

He sighs and looks at Sam. "I don't know, man."

"I mean, Trent is right. If we leave her here, she's going to keep hunting on her own. Hunters who hunt alone don't usually meet good ends."

"I know that, Sam," Dean snaps. "You think I don't know that? But what we do, I mean, you can barely even call it hunting anymore. It's way too dangerous to take her."

Sam frowns. "Dean, we could teach her-"

"God dammit, Sam, she's not coming with us!"

" _Why?"_

Dean struggles for words for a moment. "Sam, she's too… She's too good for this, for us, for me. She's too young, too normal, too _good."_

Sam tosses his hands in the air, clearly furious. "Not this again. For fuck's sake, Dean, she's too _young?_ She was old enough to fu-"

Dean's out of his chair and has Sam's throat in his hand, holding his brother down against the table, before the word is out of Sam's mouth. "No," Dean snarls. "Keep your fucking mouth off of her, Sam. I'm serious, I will kick your ass."

"Guys."

Her severe voice has Dean stepping away from Sam, scrambling for a reason he would be attacking his brother in her sun-soaked dining room.

When he turns to look at her, though, he's struck speechless again. She's got a dish towel slung over her shoulder, her lovely eyes are snapping irritation at him, her hair is pulled up in a sloppy knot. She's _beautiful,_ the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

 _Fuck._

"What's going on?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

Dean can feel his mouth opening and closing, but nothing is coming to mind. He looks at Sam, who looks as clueless as Dean feels. He looks back at her and tries on a charming smile.

Her eyes narrow, but he can see her soften a little. "Well, no fighting in the house. If you want to kick the crap out of each other, do it outside."

She turns to go back into the kitchen, and he follows her, because Sam is right. They have to talk.

As much as he wants to stay here with her, get a job, settle down, live the civvie life, he can't. He's tried the civilian life, and it's not going to work. He's always drawn back into the world of the supernatural, he's always pulled back into blood and horror and loss. It's not going to work.

And as much as he wants to take her with him, he can't. He would be so constantly worried about her that people would die, lives would be taken. She's normal, she's a civilian, she's an _innocent._ Maybe she thinks she can, but she can't just jump into the world of hunting. It's not going to work.

 _Sleeping together didn't change anything,_ he thinks mournfully. _Nothing can be different. She'll stay, I'll go, and I'll stay the fuck away._

He takes the towel from her shoulder and stands next to her to dry. He lets the comfortable silence be for a while, trying to memorize the way she moves and the way he feels, so he can keep it with him forever. So he can take it out on cold, horrible nights and hold it close to him.

After that long while, he can't hold it back anymore. "Listen, Y/N-"

"Not now, Dean," she says softly, her movements still smooth, no hesitation or break as she washes silverware.

He frowns. "Sweetheart, we've got to-"

"We haven't 'got to' anything," she says smoothly. "Not right now."

"But-"

She stops and turns to him. Her face is serene, her eyes clear of tears or worry. "Look, I know. You're not as smooth and mysterious as you think you are, you know." She turns back to the dishes, almost done now. "I know that you're… You don't want to come back. I know that, I know it's because of last night, because it's going to be too difficult for you to keep leaving. So you're going to leave for good."

She takes a deep breath and hands him the last fork, looking out the window above the sink. "But we're not talking about that right now. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." She shrugs. "Or burn it. Either way, we'll deal with it later."

Dean frowns harder. "Y/N, avoiding this isn't going to-"

"Dean, I have redefined the word 'avoiding' since I met you," she says thoughtfully. There's no heat or anger in her words, they're frank and almost emotionless. "I've redefined a lot of things. Loss, heartbreak, loneliness. They all have different meanings since I met you." She turns and smiles up at him. "But that's a problem for later. I'll have plenty of time to feel all of those things when you're gone. Not now."

Dean can't comprehend the pain in his heart. He can barely stand it, the way she somehow shows no pain at all, and she radiates misery all at the same time. He _hates_ this. His chest feels heavy, his limbs won't obey his commands, he can just stare at her in wonder.

Because she's _not_ angry. God knows she should be, she _used_ to be, but she's not. She's not angry, she's… Resigned.

 _God dammit._

"Dean."

Sam's voice finally breaks the spell, and Dean and her both turn to look at the younger Winchester. Sam has a sad look on his face, and Dean sees yet more pain that him being Y/N's soulmate has caused.

"We need to go take care of the werewolf that hurt Y/N. We never really even caught a trail."

"Well, that's because I killed it," she says casually.

They both stare at her. "You what?" Dean asks.

She nods. "Yeah, I shot it. I managed to get the shot off before I passed out." She wrinkles her nose. "Having someone else's hands touching your lungs is pretty powerful motivation to kill it."

Sam's eyebrows go up. "That's impressive, Y/N."

She smiles. "Thank you, Sam."

Dean frowns. "What were you even doing in that warehouse?"

She looks up at him. "I was hunting the werewolf. I tracked it there." She holds a hand up when he opens his mouth. "No, no, before you yell at me, I was careful. I took all the right steps before I left, and I was careful. So shut it."

He glares down at her, and anger grows in her eyes. _Good._ It will be easier to leave if she's angry. "God dammit-"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says gently from the door. He pushes off and comes to sling an arm around Y/N's shoulders. "Y/N did great. It could have happened to either of us, we just have the advantage of having each other."

"Yeah," she snaps. "Maybe if I had someone _with_ me, it wouldn't have happened."

Dean's getting mad now, too. "Oh, so it's _my_ fault, now?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it and her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she exhales, she opens her eyes and looks at him calmly again. "No, it was the werewolf's fault, Dean. You weren't there, I was, it happened." She turns to smile at Sam, and Dean sees her arm snake around his brother's waist. "And thank you, Sam."

He smiles down at her. "Yeah, no problem. You did good, kiddo."

She suddenly yawns, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm really tired, I might go lie down for a little bit."

Sam nods. "Yeah, you should get some rest."

Dean looks at her. "Do you want me to come with you?"

She just looks at him, then silently leaves the kitchen.

"Dammit," Dean mutters.

"Smooth," Sam says angrily as he walks out behind her.

 **xxxxx**

You lie on your back on your bed, feeling empty.

 _He's leaving._

You knew he was going to. You were hoping that the two of you making love would have changed something, but that was a stupid hope. He's not staying.

 _Why would he?_

Surely you're not as… Experienced as some of his other partners. He probably doesn't sleep with twenty-somethings very often, so you're probably not as good as the women he usually sleeps with it.

 _That couldn't be it, right?_

Who knows what's going through his mind. You've given up trying to understand Dean Winchester. He wants to protect you, but won't hang around to make sure you're safe. He wants you, but he won't stay with you so he can _be_ with you.

He wants to hear that you love him, but not only won't say it back, he gives you no indication that you feel the same way.

 _Damn._

You don't cry, you're out of tears. Oh, they'll be back, they always come back. You see a lot of tears on cold, lonely, terrible nights when you're by yourself and aching for him.

Because you weren't kidding, he's the only one. You can't even think about another man, you just compare them to Dean, and they just fall short every time. If a few hours ago is going to be the last time he touches you, then it will be the last time you get touched.

The door opens, and you don't move. You just stare at the ceiling, and don't acknowledge him when the door clicks behind him and he sits on the bed next to you.

He takes a breath, and you decide on a preemptive strike. "Apologize and lose a limb, Winchester."

He huffs out a laugh, and it warms you a little. Not enough to move, but a little. "Yeah, probably getting old," he says roughly.

"You have _no_ idea," you reply emphatically, and he chuckles again.

"I know, I know you're tired of it, but I really do wish things were different for you."

"I don't," you say honestly. You finally turn to your side to look at him. "I meant what I said. I'm in love with you, and I wouldn't change you at all. Not even a little bit." You smile. "I just hope you realize that you're making a mistake before it's too late for us."

Faster than you can blink, he's lying next to you, pulling you into his arms. You go, bury your face in his chest, and there are the tears.

 **xxxxx**

You're standing in the kitchen, a smile plastered on your face, keeping a lid on your emotions while you watch them pack up to leave. Sam's shooting you those goddamn puppy dog looks, and Dean's barely looking at you at all. Which is just fine with you.

He held you while you cried, then held you while you slept. And when you woke up, he told you it was time to go.

You're nauseous and upset and scared, but you keep a tight lid on those things and just smile at them. "Ready to go?"

Sam nods. "Yeah, I think so."

You nod back sharply. "Well, let's get to it, then." You pick up one of the bags and start toward the door.

Dean frowns. "Y/N, you don't have to-"

"Shut the hell up, Dean," you say mildly on your way out.

You get to the Impala, which is just _gorgeous,_ and put the bag on the trunk. You try to take another deep, steadying breath, but it's blocked by the bands that are currently wound around your chest. _I can barely breathe, and he's not even fucking gone yet._

"Hey," Sam's kind voice makes your whole persona threaten to break, so you stay looking away from him. "I'll get him to come back. We're not leaving forever, I promise."

"Don't bother," you say gently, "If he doesn't want to come back, then I don't want to force him."

He gently turns you around and pulls you into him to hug you hard. You go, pressing your face into his chest. "Fuck him," he says hotly, "I'll get him to come back. I'll drag him back if I have to."

You smile a little, although it feels cold and alien on your face. "I'm sure you will." You look up at him and smile. "Be careful, Sam. Keep an eye on him."

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "You, too, kiddo."

 **xxxxx**

Dean watches Sam hug his woman and fights around the pain in his heart. _Go. Go. Go._

He grabs his bag and walks out to join them.

 **xxxxx**

You hear the crunch of Dean's boots on the gravel of your driveway. You think briefly about ignoring him, but that seems petty, so you turn to him.

You study his handsome face, drawn tight in pain, and you smile. It feels better this time. It also feels perfectly natural to go to him and wrap your arms around his waist.

The bag drops out of his hand and his arms come around to keep you close. He crushes you to him, and you press into him, shuddering a little with the force of your emotions. You pull away just enough to look at him. "I love you, Dean Winchester," you whisper, "and I forgive you."

He stares down at you miserably. "You shouldn't."

You smile. "You don't get to decide that." You inhale sharply. "Kiss me, Dean, or you'll regret it."

He obeys, and he kisses you softly, gently, lovingly. _Fuck._

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are wet, and yours are dry. You stroke his cheek. "It's okay, go. Be careful. I love you."

He opens his mouth. "I…"

You smile at his silence. "I know. Go on, if you're gonna go."

He steps away from you slowly, then bends to pick up his bag. He lifts a hand to your face, but doesn't touch you. He just goes.

You watch him get into the driver's seat, the pain from your heart almost taking you out at the knees. You lift a hand when you see him looking at you in the driveway, and mouth the words again.

"I love you."

 **xxxxx**

She mouths, "I love you," and he can't fucking _move._

He makes no attempt to even pretend he can start to drive away. The keys aren't even in his hands, they're in his jacket pocket. He's just staring at her in the rearview mirror, soaking her in, memorizing her. _Fuck, I'm going to miss her, fuck, fuck, fuck._

"Dean," Sam says severely. "If we're going to go, we need to go. Drawing this out is just going to make it harder for her."

Dean nods, feeling like he's moving in slow motion. He digs the keys out of his pocket, then puts the right one in the ignition. He starts Baby, and she roars to life, making him think of the way Y/N shivered when she got in the first time.

And time slows down until it's stopped completely.

Her laugh. Her touch. Her smile. Her hair. Her tears. Her lips against his. The way she tastes. The way she smells. The way she submits. The way she calls out his name when she comes. The way she stands up to him. The way she takes care of him. The way her breath catches. The way her eyes darken.

The way she loves him.

 **xxxxx**

Everything hurts, and he's just sitting there in the driveway. The car is started, and you're not ready for him to go. It takes everything in you not to call out to him, not to toss your pride and get down on your knees and _beg_ him to stay with you.

You desperately try to think of everything about him, cement it in your mind so you never forget it. He's never coming back, and you don't want to lose any part of him that you have.

 _Why isn't he leaving?_

 **xxxxx**

 _Go. Move. Go. She's better off without you. You'll ruin her life. You'll kill her. Go, she's safer, she's better, just leave, go, fuck, just hit the goddamn accelerator._

 **xxxxx**

 _What is he doing? Is something wrong with Baby?_

 **xxxxx**

"Dean."

Dean turns to Sam, still feeling like he's moving through molasses. "Yeah?"

Sam is smiling kindly. "Go, Dean. Go get her."

That little push is all he needs. Time speeds up as he opens the door again.

 _I need her._

 **xxxxx**

Dean gets out of the car, and you just stare at him. _He must have forgotten something._

But when he meets your eyes, your heart kicks into overdrive. Without your permission, your feet start toward him as he almost runs to you.

You meet him in the middle, and you crash together. Your arms go around his neck, his are like cast iron around your waist, crushing you to him. You kiss madly, desperately, his amazing mouth against yours. You whimper against him, and his chest rumbles in a deep growl.

He pulls away, and the way he looks down at you makes time stop.

"Come with me," he says roughly. "I know it's not fair and I can't ask you to and-"

Elation and awe wash through you, and you go up on tiptoe to cut him off with a kiss. "Yes," you murmur against his lips. "Yes, yes, yes, always, yes."

He pulls back to look at you. "Y/N, I mean it, I want you with me. It's going to be dangerous."

You smile, your heart thundering in your chest. "Yes."

"You could get hurt."

"Yes."

"You could _die."_

You feel your eyes fill. "Yes." You beam up at him. "I love you, and I'm coming with you now, whether you like it or not."

The way his green eyes warm and crinkle at the corners when he smiles down at you makes everything, the pain and doubt and heartbreak, it makes it all worth it.

"Let's go, sweetheart."

 **xxxxx**

 **Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:**  
 **I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)**  
 **Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.**  
 **And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.**  
 ****What can I even say about this fic? Probably too much, that no one will care about. But here goes.**  
 ****The angst in this fic filled a deep part of my need to portray my characters as angsty. I also think it will help with my Sam/OFC fic, because it made me understand angst much better.**  
 ****I think it's important the way it ended. Because no matter what Sam said, no matter what Castiel said, in the end, Dean decided to stay with the reader because he just can't be without her. That meant something to me.**  
 ****Thank you all for reading my too long, too wordy, too prose-y story, and loving it as much as I did (if that's possible).**


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